


Mr. Sandburg Goes to Town

by Stormheller



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Alternate universe--classic movie, Duet Press, Jim/Blair - Freeform, M/M, Sentinel AU--Movie, Stormy Stormheller
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-24
Updated: 2011-12-24
Packaged: 2017-10-28 01:28:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 50,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/302224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stormheller/pseuds/Stormheller
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on the Frank Capra movie, 1936, Mr. Deeds Goes to Town. Original Screenplay by Robert Riskin. This story is based on the 1930s movie script, and set in 2006. Although I re-wrote almost every word, it is a “Sentinelized” movie and I take no credit for the original plot and storyline.</p><p>IF YOU LIKED THIS STORY... please check out my pro writing. <br/>My gay stories here: http://www.stormgrant.com/<br/>My urban fantasy here: http://ginaxgrant.wordpress.com/the-relucant-reaper-series/<br/>Thank you,<br/>~ Gina / Stormy / Stormheller</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mr. Sandburg Goes to Town

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published in a stand-alone zine from Blackfly Presses. Before the Flies did their en masse editing, Etui provided her thoughts and insights.
> 
> Cover art by Jenny Saypaw; photomanips, Stormheller
> 
> Stormy is now writing pro m/m fiction as "Storm Grant" (www.stormgrant.com), and mainstream novels as "Gina X. Grant" (ginaXgrant.com). Check 'em out!

****  


**Chapter 1.     To Heir is Human**  
 ****

The drive through the Cascade Mountains was relaxing, the scenery picturesque. The trees blazed a bright green that lifted the spirits and touched the soul. Pink blossoms confettied the highway. There were even some newborn lambs to add a pastoral touch as the countryside whizzed by. Simon Banks toyed with the idea of pulling over for a bit. It would be great to stretch his long legs, inhale the fresh air, and escape his annoying passenger.

Leaving the scenery for a moment, Simon glanced at his travelling companion. Lee Brackett was flipping through the major Cascade newspapers. Simon returned his attention to the road; he didn’t need to read the papers again. It was all the headlines had screamed for the last couple of weeks:

****  
_Eccentric Millionaire Dies in Fiery Crash!_  


****  
_Wealthy Industrialist Killed in Auto Accident!_  


****  
_Disclosure of Lipshitz Estate Awaited_  


****  
_Heir as Yet Unknown_  


Simon kept his left hand on the steering wheel and gestured with his right at the newspapers in Brackett’s lap. “You’re not going to show him those, are you?” There was a hard edge to his voice, just in case Brackett was actually planning on it.

“What?” Brackett’s attention was on his papers. “God, no! I’m not totally insensitive, you know.”

Simon refrained from responding one way or the other.

“Probably already seen ’em, anyway,” Brackett continued. “No. We’ll introduce ourselves, tell him what’s up, and then head home. The rest is up to him.”

“So this is a fishing expedition, then?” Simon liked fishing; it was an analogy he could live with.

“That’s right, Banks. We’re going to lay out the bait and reel him in, hook, line and sinker.”

Simon wasn’t so sure he liked the comparison, after all. He slowed the car down in accordance to a “reduce speed” sign. After zipping along the freeway for a couple of hours, it felt like they were barely crawling as they rounded a bend in the highway and passed a colourful billboard that read:

Someone had taken a taken a red pen, changed the number to read “15,286”, and had then gone on to correct the sign’s punctuation atrocities. Using a brown pen, another defacer had made a line drawing of a face rolling its eyes, captioned with the words: “Mister Sandburg was probably here”. Simon sat up a little straighter. A teacher who defaced highway signs? The trip just got a fraction more interesting.

Having left the freeway behind, they drove through the quaint little hamlet, quickly coming across Clayton Falls’ main street, which was, unremarkably, called “Main Street”. Following the directions Brackett’s administrative assistant had provided, they began to look for the home of Blair Sandburg. They drove around a while. Then a while more. Eventually, they found themselves at the far end of town. Simon pulled over by a sign that read:

The sign looked brand new, and no one had yet corrected the grammar. Simon wondered if he had a marker in his briefcase. His years in public relations, first with the Cascade PD and later as a freelancer, had taught him the value of clear, accurate communications. He hated imprecision.

“You know, Banks. For a minuscule town, you’re certainly having a tough time finding this place.”

“Me? Oh, it’s not like you…” Simon found Brackett’s insinuation highly annoying, but he censored himself, remembering his future employment could be linked with Brackett’s. “Let me see that.” Simon yanked the MapQuest directions from Brackett’s hand. “This is a map to Clayton Drive, Washington, _D.C.!_ Did you even check it?” The white paper seemed pale and bleached out in contrast with Simon’s dark skin. He balled his huge hand into a fist, making the directions crumple with a satisfying crunch. He didn’t even wince when the staple pricked his palm.

“I guess Rhonda screwed up,” Brackett said, nothing resembling apology in his voice.

“Sure, Lee. Sure.” It was just like Brackett to lay the blame on his admin. Brackett’ed probably given her poor instructions, and she was too afraid of him to ask for clarification. Simon liked Rhonda and had recently written a letter of recommendation to help her get another job. Too bad he didn’t need a secretary himself. He could ask his old friend Joel Taggert, Editor of the City Section at _The Cascade Times._ He’d think about it after he got back.

“Let’s ask somebody,” he told Brackett.

“Sure. It’s a small town. I’ll just roll down the window and yell, ‘Which way to Goldberg’s place?’ Everybody’s bound to know.”

“We’ll ask at the library. He’s a teacher. They’ll know him.” Simon sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose where his glasses irritated it. “And it’s ‘Sandburg’, by the way.”

“‘Goldberg’, ‘Sandburg’. What’s the difference? They’re all the same.”

Simon looked at him askance. “Excuse me?”

“You know. Small town folk. They’re the same everywhere you go.”

“Oh,” said Simon, somewhat mollified. He had to admit that over his years working with Brackett, the man had never seemed like a racist. A “Brackett-ist” maybe, but not a racist. Simon brightened a bit. He’d finally found something good to say about the lawyer sitting next to him: Lee Brackett was a selfish son of a bitch, but not a racist. Great.

Simon pulled the car up at a gracious federal-style building, which had the words “Clayton Falls Public Library” and “Clayton Falls City Hall” engraved above the door. Before Simon could get out and ask someone, Brackett had yelled at a group of people milling about on the steps. “Hey! Does anybody know…?”

A few moments later, they were on their way, again. It might not have been very polite, but Simon had to admit it had been effective. Six people had practically fought over the privilege of pointing them towards Sandburg’s house. Apparently, this Sandburg guy was very well liked in Clayton Falls. Or at least well known.

Simon pulled up in front of the house as directed, shut off the car and climbed out.

Neither “quaint” nor “charming” were words Simon Banks used often, but he used them now to describe Blair Sandburg’s residence. It had an air of loving, if sporadic, care. The Arts and Crafts-style bungalow featured the original oak trim left unpainted, although its weathered finish could have used a coat of varnish. The cement steps were probably original to the house, but were crumbling badly. The front lawn had been turned into garden that had run amok; but then who was to say which blossoming plants were weeds and which were flowers? A number of artefacts were on display in the garden: a shiny blue gazing ball on a stick tilted slightly to one side, a Buddha-head nestled among the roots of a sumac tree, a winged gargoyle was being strangled by a flowering vine. The house itself was similarly adorned. A large red mask peeked out at them from behind the stained glass front window, and the doorknocker was obviously South American in design. Simon had spent time in Peru and recognised the symbols from one of the local tribes.

The door opened just as he reached for the ornate knocker.

“Yes?” The man who had opened the door was average height, five-eight, five-nine, maybe. He was slim and fit, although more like a runner than the sort that works out regularly. He had long curly brown hair pulled back in a ponytail that was slightly lopsided, like the garden’s gazing ball. The man’s eyes shone dark blue, also not unlike said object, as well. Simon deduced the man wore glasses from the pressure marks on his nose, but he wasn’t wearing them now; far-sighted, Simon concluded; you could take the detective out of the bullpen…

Stepping in front of Simon, Brackett asked, “Are you Blair Sandburg?”

“That’s me.” The man nodded.

Brackett held out his hand. “Nice to meet you.”

Sandburg took it, although at this point, he wouldn’t have had a clue who these guys at his door were. “Uh… Hi.”

Brackett scooped a business card from his suit jacket pocket and presented it to Sandburg. “I’m Lee Brackett, of the Cascade legal firm Brackett, Brackett, Brackett, and Oliver.”

Sandburg took the card respectfully in both hands, Japanese style, examining it carefully. “Brackett, Brackett, Brackett, and Oliver,” he read aloud. Smiling, Sandburg looked up at Brackett. “Poor Oliver must feel a bit left out around the holidays.”

Simon Banks snorted. “Nah. He’s their cousin,” he explained, ignoring Brackett’s look. He, too, held out his hand, “I’m Simon Banks. No relation.” He patted his pockets, “I must have left my cards in the car.”

And then they stood there, Sandburg looking expectant, Brackett looking impatient, and Simon feeling awkward. After a very long minute, Simon _ahem’ed_ and began, “We’re here about—”

Brackett cut him off. “May we come in?” He patted his designer briefcase. “We have some important matters to discuss with you.”

“You’re not, like, here on behalf of a church or anything are you?” Sandburg rocked up on the balls of his feet, “‘cause, I could, like, you know, tell you all about _my_ cult. See I’m into the great FSM who created the…”

“That’s a very clever way to deal with crackpots, Mr. Sandburg. I’ve got to remember that.” Simon smiled. “I assure you we’re here on business that concerns you personally. We’re not selling anything.” Yet, he added silently.

“Okay. Sure.” Sandburg stepped back to allow the two men to enter. “Make yourselves at home,” he gestured toward his worn but comfortable-looking furniture.

Simon eyed the beanbag chair warily before seating himself on the futon that served as a couch.

Brackett grabbed a hard-backed chair from the dining table, dragged it into the living area, and seated himself gingerly. “Hope this holds me,” he said, _sotto voce;_ surely, he’d meant Blair to hear him.

Before he closed the door, Sandburg reached into the wrought iron mailbox next to the door and retrieved a large, brown envelope. It looked to Simon to be one of those bubble-pack envelopes, and this one was pretty dog-eared. He hoped on Sandburg’s behalf, that it had successfully protected whatever it held. Sandburg looked at the envelope, then at his guests. Reluctantly, he crossed the room and took a seat on the futon next to Simon, still holding and stealing surreptitious glances at his package. He started fingering the envelope’s pull-tab.

Brackett got right to the point. “I’d like to ask you a few questions, Mr. Sandburg.”

Blair nodded in acknowledgement, while continuing to fiddle with the tab, working it open an inch or two at a time.

“Mr. Sandburg, are you the son of Naomi Sandburg?”

“So she always said, although I wasn’t exactly there, you know.” He pushed an errant curl away from his face and yanked the tab all the way across. “And call me Blair, ’kay?”

“Okay. _Blair.”_ Brackett made it clear he thought Blair was a dumb name. And quite possibly a dumb guy to go with it. “Are your parents living?”

Blair appeared taken aback by this question. After all, Simon thought, who appears at your door and starts asking questions like these? Despite his obvious misgivings, Blair answered anyway, “No. My mom died last year in a tragic yurt incident.” He looked off into the distance, eyes a little misty.

“And your father?”

“I’m an IC baby. No father on record.” Blair upended the puffy envelope and a worn, old volume slid into his lap.

“IC?” asked Brackett, one eyebrow raised in a gesture Simon had always envied.

“Immaculate Conception, Lee,” Simon answered for Blair. Simon and Blair exchanged a grin that utterly excluded the pissed-looking lawyer. Perhaps, Simon thought, this is the start of a beautiful friendship.

Brackett harrumphed, returning to his questioning. “What do you know about David Lipshitz?”

“Uncle David?” Blair turned the book right way up, stroking the old leather binding almost reverently. The Sentinels of Paraguay by Sir Richard Burton, Simon leaned across the futon and read at Blair’s shoulder. “He’s my mother’s brother. I saw him pretty often when I was at Rainier University. Not very often after I moved back here and started teaching at the local high school. My mother had little contact with him.” Sandburg focused on Brackett. “Half-brother, actually. Hence the different last name. Seems my grandmother—”

“Well,” Brackett interrupted Blair’s family history lesson. “Lipshitz passed on. He was killed in a car accident a few days ago.”

Simon shuddered at Brackett’s curt announcement, only too glad Blair had indicated they weren’t that close, although he figured Brackett would have handled it the same even if Blair had said otherwise.

“He was? Gee, that’s too bad. If there’s anything I can do to—”

“I have good news for you, Blair.” Brackett said. “Mr. Lipshitz left a large fortune when he died. He left it _all_ to you. Deducting the taxes, it amounts to something in the neighbourhood of $20 million.”

Blair opened the book gently; a daguerreotype of a South American aboriginal holding a shield and spear stared out at them. Blair tipped the book a little to the left so Simon could see it more clearly. Blair’s only reaction to the startling news about his inheritance was to lift his eyes in Brackett’s direction. “Would you like a snack? I’ve got a great whack of fresh fruit I picked up at the farmers’ market this morning. And real homemade yoghurt to go on top. You know, the thick, all-natural stuff. You don’t want to go to the local diner.” He rolled his eyes at his last comment, indicating that the diner was not the eatery of choice. “The cholesterol’ll kill you, man.” He returned his attention to his new old book.

Brackett looked surprised and a little annoyed, while Simon remained interested, and a little entertained.

“Perhaps you didn’t hear what I said, Mr. Sandburg! The whole Lipshitz fortune goes to you!”

“What? Oh, yeah.” Blair turned another page. “I heard you, all right. Twenty-million dollars. That’s a whole shitload of bucks, isn’t it?” He laughed. “And I thought I paid a fortune for this!” He gestured at the book on his lap.

“And how much was that, Mr. Sandburg?” Brackett asked, apparently clueing in that this book was important to Sandburg for some reason.

“I paid $350 on eBay. Plus shipping. And let me tell you, there was some fierce bidding going on. Right up to the last possible second. There I was, poised to go in for the kill, and… _hi-ya!”_ Blair made karate chop moves in the air with his free hand. “I, gentlemen, have the fastest mouse button finger in the Pacific Northwest.” He blew on his finger like a smoking gun and sat back, grinning in triumph.

Simon laughed. “Twenty-million bucks’ll buy a history book or two.”

“Anthropology, actually. Although the two can be practically interchangeable at times.” Blair’s stared at the ceiling. “I wonder why he left me all that money. I don’t need it.”

He sat forward again and resumed his reading, then raised his head, looking thoughtful. “You know, I could do a lot of good with that money. I bet I could set up a foundation, or divide it up among any number of important charities.” He seemed lost in thought.

Brackett practically leapt out of his chair, “Charities? Give it away? You can’t just go around—”

Seeing the look on Blair’s face move from surprised to pissed to stubborn as Brackett spoke, Simon cut in quickly. “Hey, Blair. Is that offer for fruit and yoghurt still open?”

This got Blair’s attention the way $20 million hadn’t. “Of course, Simon, coming right up. How, ‘bout you, ah…” He glanced at the business card he’d laid on the end table beside him. “Lee?”

“No, thanks. I’m not big on natural foods. If it wasn’t grown with pesticides, it’s probably got bugs, and if it’s not filled with preservatives, it’s probably rotten.” He grinned like he’d made a joke. Simon rolled his eyes, and Blair looked horrified. Blair opened his mouth to speak, but a minuscule headshake from Simon indicated it was pointless. Blair closed his mouth and headed to the kitchen.

~ ~ ~

“This was great, Blair. Tell me where the farmers’ market is, and I’ll take some home on our way back out of town.” Simon’s spoon clanked against the bottom of the bowl as he scooped out the last of the yoghurt.

“Glad you like it, Simon.” Blair grinned and looked again at the business cards lying on the table in front of him. Simon had fetched one of his from the car while Blair was fixing their fruit salads. “Your card here reads: ‘Public Relations and Private Investigations’. I get that Lee here is a lawyer and solicitor for the Lipshitz estate, but what’s your role in this?”

Before Simon could answer, Brackett, impatient and jittery—probably from low blood sugar, Simon guessed—jumped in. “Mr. Banks here is an ex-cop who was associated with your uncle for many years, as a sort of buffer.”

“‘Buffer?’ What exactly does that mean?” Although Brackett had been the one to speak, Blair focused his attention on Simon.

“I guess ‘buffer’ is as good a term as any, although sometimes I think ‘glorified pit bull’ would be more accurate.”

Brackett leapt in again, “Yes, you see, rich people need someone to keep the crowds away. The world’s full of pests. Then there’s the media and paparazzi to handle. And hundreds of ‘good causes’.” Brackett made air-quote around the last two words. “One must know when to seek publicity and when to avoid it.” He stared at Blair.

Blair focussed on Simon as he had the old book. “That’s quite an interesting career path, Simon. I get the cop to private investigator thing, but how does the public relations fit in?”

Simon sighed and gave the abridged version of his career. “Do you remember the Channing Avenue gang wars of a few years back?”

“Sure. I had just finished my Bachelor’s and was about to start my Masters that fall. It was one long, hot summer for sure.”

“Well, I’d just made detective then, fresh off the streets and had good contacts with the gangs. I’d done a degree in public relations before going to the police academy, so the higher-ups started coaching me and putting me in front of the media, and I helped negotiate the truce between the Deuces and 357s.”

“Right. Right. I remember. As far as I know, that truce still stands today. Nice work! So you ended up in PR, right?”

“That’s right. But times change and things change…” Simon trailed off.

“Like budget cuts and promotions that never came,” Blair supplied. “I hear that, man. I hear that.”

Simon was startled by Blair’s accurate and vehement description. “Something like that,” he agreed, not liking to slam his previous employer. “So I got a job in public relations at _The Cascade Times._ Another former cop was rising through the ranks there and brought me on board. I worked there for about 18 months. I liked it, but I really wanted to be my own boss, so I quit and hung out a shingle—public relations and private investigations—like it says on the card. Your uncle was one of my first clients, and I was with him until the end.”

“You liked Uncle David?”

“I did. Very much so. He was a self-made man and didn’t have any of the…” Simon searched for the right word, “uh, sense of entitlement that people who are born wealthy often have. He was…”

“Powerful?” supplied Brackett.

“Cool?” suggested Blair.

“Yeah, cool. Thanks.” Simon took off his glasses and cleaned them with the napkin he’d not used for the fruit plate.

“Well, this trip down memory lane has been fun, but we have a few more details to get straight here,” Brackett jumped in. “With $20 million comes a lot of responsibility. You’ll need to spend all of your time managing your money. It’ll be a full time job for you.

Blair had returned his attention to the old book but now seemed surprised by the question. “Who, me? What do you mean? I don’t know anything about managing money. And besides, it’s hardly how I want to spend my time.”

“Well, you could find someone to manage all that money for you.” Brackett tossed out his line casually. Simon knew Brackett had been angling for this since they got there. “That way you could concentrate on doing things you’d always wanted to do. Is there a life-long dream you’ve always wanted to fulfil?”

“There is one thing I’ve always wanted to do, since you ask. I’ve gotten fixated on the idea of finding a Sentinel. It’s the subject of the Ph.D. thesis I never completed. My therapist says I’m a bit obsessive.” Blair winked. “But as far as letting someone else manage Uncle David’s money, I’d really have to give that some thought.”

“Completing your thesis, hmm?” Simon rose hoping Brackett would realize it was time for them to leave. “That’s very dedicated of you. Don’t you think so, Lee?”

Brackett scowled and stood as well. “Well, I suppose we all had dreams like that when we were young, but we outgrow them. We’d better get started. You’ll have to pack.”

“Huh? What for?”

“Because you’re going to Cascade with us, of course.”

“I am? When?”

“As soon as you’re ready. So you’d better get started. You do own a suitcase, don’t you?”

Apparently, Brackett’s abrasiveness was starting to get on Blair’s nerves. He answered with a low note of anger in his tone, “Listen. I’m an anthropologist. I’ve been all over the world on expeditions. I keep my passport up to date and a backpack ready to go at a moment’s notice. So I’m ready _now.”_ He stood with hands on hips looking a bit pissed.

“What about your students.”

“It’s six weeks to the end of term. We have a half-time science teacher who’ll be very glad to get the extra hours. It’s not a problem.”

Brackett seemed pleased. Simon wondered if he was just obliviously offensive, or if he had just manoeuvred Sandburg into coming to Cascade with them without argument. After all, Blair could have insisted they settle the estate from Clayton Falls.

Brackett picked up his briefcase and headed for the door, stopping at the last moment to say, “Congratulations, Mr. Sandburg. You’re one of the richest men in Cascade. We’ll be waiting by the car.”

 

**Chapter 2.     Blood is Slicker than Water**  
 ****

Lee Brackett strode up the lushly appointed corridor to a frosted glass door. “Brackett, Brackett, Brackett & Oliver” was stencilled in gold leaf on the glass. He pushed open the door and walked through. The receptionist wished him a good morning, but he didn’t bother to reply. Turning a corner, he reached his own private office.

“Good morning, Lee,” Rhonda mumbled.

This time he did respond, not in greeting, but by asking for the mail, messages, anything urgent.

“The other senior partners would like to meet with you as soon as possible, but you have a meeting with John Smith. He’s been waiting a while in the lobby. Shall I buzz him in?”

“Smith? Who the hell is John Smith?” Brackett asked as he leafed through the pink message slips Rhonda handed him.

“He’s a law student looking for a place to article when he graduates next month. You thought he looked good on paper, and our HR director said he had potential. He graduated top of his class.”

“Oh. Tell him I can’t make it today. Set up something for later in the week.”

“But, Lee, he’s already…” She trailed off as he walked into his office.

“And, Rhonda. Tell my brothers and Oliver I’ll see them in the boardroom in 20 minutes. He closed the door. He had nothing on his schedule for the next 20 minutes now that he’d cancelled Smith, but it was good to let them wait.

~ ~ ~

Twenty minutes later, Brackett, Brackett and Oliver had ordered their secretaries to re-arrange _their_ jam-packed calendars, rushed through early-morning meetings, and congregated in the boardroom. The table was littered with coffee cups, Blackberrys, cell phones, and a half-eaten bagel.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” Brackett began.

“How was the fishing expedition?” asked Brackett.

“How’d Sandburg take it?” asked another Brackett.

“What’s he like?” asked Oliver.

“We’ve got nothing to worry about. He’s as naive as a child.” Lee Brackett was the eldest, and they all looked up to him. At least in his mind, they did. “The smartest thing I ever did was to make that trip.”

“Uh, Lee. Did you get the, uh—?” Oliver asked, speaking for them all.

“No, Oliver, I didn’t get the Power of Attorney. But don’t worry, I will.” He beamed confidence at his partners. “I asked him yesterday what he intended to do with the money, and what do you suppose he said?”

“What?” asked Brackett.

“I can’t imagine,” said another Brackett.

“He’d buy a yacht?” asked Oliver.

Brackett drew out the suspense, taking a long sip of coffee. Finally, he said, “He said he’d give it away.”

“Give it away!” repeated Brackett.

“What?” asked another Brackett.

“The boy must be crazy!” declared Oliver.

“Exactly,” said Lee Brackett. “That’s why I brought him back with me now. He’s staying at his late uncle’s place and hasn’t a clue what to do in a big city. Last time he was here he was a starving student. Probably knows his way to Rainier and the reference library and nowhere else. He’s been all over the world, but always as part of an academic expedition organized by somebody else. Any time he’s spent outside of Bumblefuck Falls has been in this jungle or that forest. He knows how to handle himself on a dig or in an airport and that’s about it.” Brackett laughed. “He’s a utter naïf. I told him he’d inherited $20 million, and he asked if I wanted a fruit cocktail!”

“Well, Lee, you certainly had the right hunch!”

Oliver looked a bit concerned. “Lee. About the Power of Attorney. We can’t afford to—”

“I know. I know.” Brackett snapped. “We can’t afford to have the Lipshitz account books investigated right now. You must have said that a thousand times already.”

“But what if they fall into somebody else’s hands, why, uh…”

“Well, it hasn’t happened yet, has it?”

“But four-and-a-half-million dollars! My God, where are we going to get—”

Brackett slammed his cup down on the table, denting the expensive finish. Coffee slopped every which way. PDAs and the bagel were quickly snatched out of danger. “Will you stop worrying! It was me who got old man Lipshitz to turn everything over to us, wasn’t it? And who got the Power of Attorney from him? All right, and I’ll get it again!” He sat back, a little calmer. “Don’t you worry. Those books’ll be above reproach before the IRS makes their next visit. I promise you none of us are going to jail! Cross my heart.” He ran his index finger up, then down his breast pocket, knowing the familiar gesture from their childhood would go a long way toward reassuring his brothers and cousin.

 

**Chapter 3.     Married Alive**  
 ****

Larry Lipshitz sprawled across his black leather sofa, reading a newspaper and trying fairly successfully to ignore his wife. She waved a copy of the financial section about, pointing over and over at the headline:

****  
_Lipshitz Heir Located. Small Town Boy $20 Million Richer!_  


“A hick! A yokel. Nothing worthwhile every came out of Clayton Falls! Your uncle must have been crazy to leave all that money to him! You’re as closely related to him as this bumpkin is, and what did you get?”

She tossed the financial section into his lap. He moved it over and carried on reading the sports section. _“I said,_ what did you get?”

“Stop yelling at me, Cassie. Can I help it if my uncle didn’t like me?” Larry looked at his wife. “Besides, we’re doing all right. We don’t need his money.”

“I told you to be nice to him. Ten years we’ve been waiting for that old man to kick off. And then we were going to be on Easy Street.”

Larry looked around—they had a lovely home, furnished in excellent taste. He did okay as a financial analyst, and she had a high-paying job in R&D at Dupont. They’d done well in the stock market and, having never had children, were looking forward to early retirement and moving up to the summer place permanently. “The summer place. Uncle David gave us that beautiful place as a wedding present. I’ve always felt he was very generous.”

Cassie tossed her red curls. “Considering his net worth, he could have been a whole fuck of a lot more generous than that! I’m going to see about getting the will overturned. We have a good claim on that estate, and we’re going to see that that hayseed Sandburg doesn’t blow it on… I don’t know, hay or something.”

Larry sat up and put his paper aside. “Well, I don’t know about that, Cassie. I suppose I could go see Cousin Blair and see if he wants to, uh, maybe split it with us or something. I could ask.”

Cassie eyed her husband critically. “Don’t bother. What idiot in their right mind would give away money they didn’t have to? I’m going to try to reach Lipshitz’s lawyers. I’ve got their card right here. They can advise us on our chances of getting something out of the old man.”

“What ‘us’?” Larry asked, but Cassie was already dialling.

**Chapter 4.    Liars and Taggerts and Blairs. Oh, my!**  
 ****

Joel Taggert stood at the front of _The Cascade Times_ “situation room”. It was a fairly large boardroom, the inside wall constructed completely of television sets, each showing the news from a different channel: local, national, international. A dozen remotes were holstered to a Velcro-covered bar near the front, all currently set on mute. While a newcomer might find the silently scrolling reports and flashing graphics distracting, the seven reporters and photographers scattered around the boardroom table were all pros, ignoring the endless broadcasts.

The facing wall was floor to ceiling windows, slightly tinted to avoid glare on the TV screens. A tall, handsome man leaned against one window, staring out at Cascade harbour, apparently indifferent to the heated discussion going on around him.

“He’s news!” Joel was saying. “Every time he blows his nose, it’s news. A corn-fed bohunk like that falling into the Lipshitz fortune is hot copy. But it’s got to be personal. It’s got to have an angle. What does he think about? How does it feel to be an overnight millionaire? Is he going to get married? What does he think of Cascade? Is he smart? Is he sexy? There’s a million angles, people. Get. Me. One!”

“Yeah, we tried to—” one reporter spoke up.

Joel interrupted her. “Sandburg’s been here three days, and what have you brought in?” He pulled out a large purple bandanna and mopped his sweaty brow.

The self-appointed spokes-reporter tried again. “You know Simon Banks. He’s keeping this Sandburg guy under lock and key.”

“Simon Banks, huh?” Joel smiled. “I know Simon well. He’s a good guy. Find a way around him! Listen, people. This is just like diffusing a bomb; you have to finesse it. You have to study it carefully, circle it, check it out and then swoop in and do your thing. And if you think you got it wrong, run like hell so you can live to try again another day.”

There was laughter around the room, even though most of them had heard the bomb analogy before.

“We’ll try, sir!” One of the young photographers had a little case of hero worship for Joel. The other reporters rolled their eyes or smiled warmly, depending on their temperament. The man by the window ignored them all.

“Now here are some updates we’ve pulled together from other sources.” Joel tossed a pile of photocopies to the first man on his right, who took one and passed them on. “So bone up on these and then come see me when you’ve got a plan. I want a coordinated effort here. No cowboy stuff. My door’s always open to you.”

The group knew the signal for “meeting adjourned” when they heard it. Noisily, they collected their notebooks, both electronic and the old-fashioned paper kind, and scrambled to their feet.

The man by the window remained. Now that the meeting was over, he turned to face the room, watching his colleagues file out. Joel picked up his favourite coffee cup, the one with a picture of his first grandchild on it, and walked over to the windows.

“‘Cornfed bohunk’, Joel? Who writes your stuff? Minnie Pearl?”

“You’re welcome to criticize my word choices any time, Jim. That is, anytime you put something of your own on my desk for editing. I can’t believe that you, my star reporter, haven’t brought me anything on Blair Sandburg. The newspaper-reading public loves this human-interest stuff, Jim. The only reason I haven’t whaled on your ass is that none of the other papers have come up with anything either.”

“‘Whaled on my ass,’ Joel?” Jim’s tone was dryer than good gin.

“Metaphorically, speaking, of course.” Joel smoothed his tie. He and Jim Ellison went way back and genuinely liked each other.

“I thought I was supposed to be a crime reporter, Joel.”

“And it’s a crime nobody’s got anything to report on Sandburg yet.”

“Look, Joel. I know you gave me a chance when no one else would hire me, when my...” Jim made a sweeping gesture that encompassed his ears-eyes-nose-mouth-entire-self. “You know, senses or whatever went crazy, and I couldn’t be a cop anymore. I appreciate that, Joel; I really do. But you said then that my experience in law enforcement, my detective training and skills would really give me an advantage as a crime reporter.” Joel nodded. “So explain to me how spying on some lucky stiff who just inherited 20-million bucks is, in any way shape or form, crime reporting?”

“Look, Ellison. Nobody else can get near him, and you’ve got a history of working well with Simon Banks. Hell, so do I. Simon’s a great guy, and you know as well as I do that he’s putting _his_ knowledge and training in law enforcement to good use keeping everybody _away_ from his boy.” Joel leaned in close. “And besides, it’s a slow news week. I promise I’ll pull you from the Sandburg story the instant some crazy takes hostages in an elevator, or hides bombs in public places, or threatens to poison the water supply. How’s that for a compromise?” He slapped Jim soundly on the shoulder. Jim winced a bit.

“Okay, Joel. Okay.” Jim shrugged, staring out the window again. “He hasn’t taken out Old Man Lipshitz’s yacht since he’s been in Cascade. It’s just sitting there at the Cascade Yacht Club. Lee Brackett was out there earlier with a pretty young girl, though. Wonder if Mrs. Brackett knows.”

“Don’t tell me you can see all the way to the yacht club from here, Jim. That’s preposterous.” Joel was aware that Jim had great vision, but that far? No way. “What’s gotten into you, anyway, Jim? I remember a time when you’d blast this town wide open before you’d let Simon Banks get between you and a good story.”

“Oh, Simon’s not getting in my way. Don’t you worry about that.” He looked at Joel, a grin that could only be defined as “shit-eating” on his handsome face.

Joel’s face lit up. He wagged a finger at Jim. “Ah. So, you’ve a plan then. Are you going to share with your old Editor?”

“When have I ever?” Jim smiled back, complicity the bond between them.

“If it were anyone else, Ellison. Anyone else.” He shook his head but was still smiling. He laid a hand on Jim’s arm, and they turned to leave the boardroom. “Listen, Jim, get me some stuff on this guy, and you can have—”

“Two month’s vacation?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I could never get that past the higher ups.”

“One month, then.”

“Done! Get me the goods on Sandburg, and you can have a month off _with pay.”_

They reached the door and stopped again. “Leave four columns open on the front page tomorrow,” Jim said loudly; loudly enough for the rest of the newsroom to hear. He headed up the hall toward his office.

“Hey, Jim!” Joel called after him. “What’re you gonna do with a month’s vacation?”

Jim turned back, but kept walking, somehow able to move through the crowded work area without hitting anything or anybody. “I’m going to Peru to see a man about a Guide.”

“A man about a… Well, that’s just crazy!” Joel muttered. He heard Ellison laughing down the hall. It was almost as if Jim had heard him.

**Chapter 5.     Clothed for the Season**  
 ****

The former Lipshitz Manor, now the Sandburg residence, was an imposing structure. It featured gothic, Italianate, and Victorian detailing. It had turrets and crenellated rooftops. It had ivy and ginger-breading and gables galore. It had marble pillars and flying buttresses. It should have been an architect’s nightmare, but instead, it all kind of worked together in a strong, eclectic manner. It might not have been beautiful, and Frank Lloyd Wright would have run screaming, but it was one of the more interesting homes in Cascade, and Blair was quite taken by it.

He’d been there before, of course. His uncle had invited him for dinner a couple of times a year when Blair had been studying at Rainier University, but Blair’s education had spanned a lot of years, so it had meant a lot of dinners. He’d liked his uncle, although he’d rarely seen him since he’d moved back to Clayton Falls. Apparently, though, Blair’s mother, Naomi, and Uncle David had had some sort of falling out. Something about bailing her out once too often. Blair suspected that it might have been Uncle David’s money that had allowed Naomi to keep her fancy-free, hippie lifestyle, flitting here and there around the world without ever holding down a job. He’d ask Simon about it later. Maybe there was a trust fund or a stipend somewhere on the books. It would be good to know that Naomi and David had attained some sort of truce, now that they were both gone and no reconciliation could ever take place. At least not on this plane of existence.

The house seemed huge to Blair, although there were plenty of other mansions on the street that dwarfed it. It had a living room, a formal dining room, a parlour, a party room, a “rec” room, six bedrooms with ensuite baths, and more that Blair hadn’t had a chance to discover yet. There was even a small ballroom on the ground floor near the front. He’d eschewed the master suite that had been his uncle’s, feeling too much like an interloper although Simon and Rafe both assured him Lipshitz wanted him to have everything—hence the will. Still, he’d chosen a smaller room and even offered the master suite to Rafe if he liked. Rafe declined, saying the apartment over the five-car garage was more than spacious, and much more _private._ The emphasis Rafe had put on “private” had confirmed some things Blair had suspected. Also, in ensuring his own privacy, Rafe also ensured Blair’s.

Blair had inherited Rafe, the valet, along with the rest of the Lipshitz estate, and as far as Blair was concerned, he was the best thing about the place. Slim, good-looking, with a quick mind and very dry sense of humour, he provided nearly transparent service and pleasant, if deferential company; the man was the quintessential in-service professional.

Most of the house, though, seemed to be left unused. In fact, everybody congregated in the “family room”, although there was nothing “family” about it. It seemed to have been his uncle’s workroom and office. It had a desk and chairs on one side, couch, TV and bar on the other. A huge antique mirror graced one wall. Most importantly, it had direct access to the kitchen. Rafe had referred to it as “command central” when giving Blair his initial tour of his new home. The name had stuck.

It was in command central that Blair found himself on the morning of his third day as a millionaire. He was positioned on a tailor’s podium and stood awkwardly as two tailors waved chalk and pins like magic wands, fitting him for one suit after another. The one he was currently sporting was almost done. It was a conservative navy pinstripe, and he was as uncomfortable with the tailoring process as a kid at the dentist.

“This is the first time I ever had a suit made for me.” He fidgeted, shifting his weight to the right.

“Please, sir,” tailor Maurice reprimanded. “You’re skewing the drape.”

“Uh, what does that mean?” Blair asked, shifting his weight to the other side.

“It means,” Maurice’s partner, Travis, said, “that if you don’t hold still, this will have to be done over from scratch.”

Blair couldn’t bear the thought of going through this process again and so forced himself to hold as still as he could. He wished he could meditate—that would help—but there was too much commotion for him to relax and get peaceful.

“I usually just go to Ross Store and find something waaayyy discounted, “ he told the tailors. “In fact, I’ve got a couple of suits already. After all, I only wear ‘em to weddings, funerals and job interviews. Why, I bought a Harry Boss suit just a few years ago.”

“A suit that was off-price a few years ago would be terribly out of date by now.” Maurice sniffed and adjusted his designer glasses. “And by the way, that would be ‘Hugo Boss’, sir.”

Blair thought hard a moment. “Nope. I remember passing on the Hugo Boss stuff because it was so pricey. Now Harry Boss I could afford. Must be a family business, because the logo was practically identical. It’s like this Roltex watch I once bought. Got it way cheaper because the manufacturer made a typo in the name.” He grinned.

“You’re joshing with us, Mr. Sandburg, aren’t you?” Rafe entered the room with beverages “all round” as Blair had requested. Interestingly, Rafe, it seemed, could afford Hugo Boss suits. Not for the first time, Blair wondered what the dapper valet’s relationship with his uncle had been.

“Yeah, Rafe-buddy. I am. You guys think I’m such a hick. Try and remember I have two-and-a-half degrees, will you?”

“If I might be so bold, sir,” Maurice began. “I might hazard a guess that none of those degrees is in fashion design, is it?” He held Blair’s worn and torn jeans in one hand and a faded plaid shirt in the other, like exhibits A and B.

Blair threw his head back and laughed. _“Ow!”_ His movement had caused Travis to stab his thigh with a pin—probably accidentally. Blair rubbed the spot, still chuckling. “You got me, man. Not one of the many courses for the many degrees was in modern-day fashion, although I did take a course in tribal body adornment. Did you know that the Ubangi of Africa often pierce— _Ow!”_

“Please hold still, sir. I cannot guarantee your continued safety if you keep dancing about like a… like a…”

“Like a kid that needs to pee?” Blair supplied helpfully.

“I was going to say like a go-go boy at Club Doom.”

This time Travis was quick enough to move the pins to a safe distance when Blair laughed so hard he doubled over.

“Now look what you’ve done, Maurice. I’m going to have to re-pin the knees as well as the seat and crotch.”

This, of course, set Blair to laughing again. Travis stood with hands on hips, all formal and stern, but his smile indicated he was having more fun with his present client than he had had in a long time.

Simon Banks and Lee Brackett chose that moment to enter. “Wow, Blair. That looks great on you,” Brackett said. “The chicks are going to go crazy for you.”

Rafe raised one eyebrow. “Well, _someone_ certainly will,” he seconded. “May I get you gentlemen a drink?”

Simon Banks sniffed the air. “Is that Colombian I smell, Rafe?

“You’re good, sir. I just brewed up a fresh pot of _Nariño Supremo._ I’m assuming you’d like a cup?”

“Oh, yes, please. Or, you know, an entire pot. Whatever’s easier.” Simon sniffed again, sighing contentedly.

“Mr. Brackett?” Rafe asked.

“Uh, same for me, uh, Ralph. But that last one you made me tasted kind of funny. See what you can do about that, will you?”

“Very good, sir.”

Blair snickered, thinking Brackett might be wise to either learn Rafe’s name or stop drinking the coffee.

Brackett made himself at home at the antique desk in the corner, pulling papers from his briefcase and taking up their conversation of yesterday exactly where he’d left off. “It’s merely a suggestion, Blair. I don’t wish to press the point, but if you’ll give me your Power of Attorney, we’ll take care of everything. It’ll save you a lot of petty annoyances. Every shark in town is going to try and sell you something.”

Blair was about to protest. He’d told Brackett again just yesterday that he needed time to think about it and, frankly, twelve hours hadn’t been what he’d meant. But Brackett had, ironically, raised a good point about people trying to sell him something. “You’re right, Lee. There’s been a lot of hangers-on and people with their hands out around here already.” He looked pointedly at Brackett. Simon looked uncomfortable, but Brackett was oblivious. “Strangest kind of people.” Blair continued. “Salesmen, politicians, lawyers… They all want something.”

“Lawyers, hmm?” Brackett looked nervous. “Well, until the estate is fully settled, you’re locked into my firm. You can undertake the painful process of short-listing, interviewing, reference-checking, negotiating…” He sighed. “I don’t envy you the task, Blair. Finding a new lawyer you can trust, one that’s up to speed and large enough to handle all your needs, while keeping the business here in Cascade… Whew!” Brackett blew out his cheeks. “That’s a helluva lot of work, and you have to get it right or it could end up costing you. Costing you a lot.” He sat back in his chair, looking exhausted, looking overwhelmed by how hard he was trying to help his dear friend, Blair Sandburg. “It’s up to you, of course,” he concluded.

Blair ignored the theatrics; he knew a sales pitch when he heard one. “You know, I haven’t had a minute to myself. Haven’t been to the Ventriss Museum yet. They have a display of tribal—”

“That’s exactly what I mean, Blair. You don’t need to bother with all the business of being wealthy. Your uncle never bothered with that sort of thing. He left everything up to us. He travelled most of the time and enjoyed himself. You should do the same thing, Blair.”

“Besides wanting to be my lawyer, you want to handle my investments, too?”

“Yes. That is to say—”

“Outside of your regular fee, how much extra will it cost?”

“Oh, nothing,” Brackett answered quickly. It’s all part of the service. No extra charge.” He beamed at Blair.

“But that involves a lot of extra work, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, but that’s an added service a firm like Brackett, Brackett, Brackett and Oliver usually provides. It’s a token of our appreciation for your legal business.”

Rafe appeared in the doorway. “The ladies and gentlemen from the theatre company should begin arriving shortly. You’ll be ready to join them in about 15 minutes?”

“Oh, right? Thanks for the reminder, Rafe. I forgot all about them.”

The tailors had finished their pinning and were carefully peeling the suit-in-progress from Blair. He grabbed his jeans and plaid shirt and pulled them on quickly, asking, “What do you think they want?”

“Your uncle was Chairman of the Theatre’s Board of Directors. They probably expect you to carry on,” Simon answered.

“Oh, I guess I’d better hear what they have to say.”

“I’ll go with you, Blair.” Simon picked up the coffee Rafe had brought him and rose to escort Blair into the main dining room that apparently did double-duty as boardroom for the Cascade Royal Theatre Company.

Before he could reach the door, Brackett gave his agenda one last push: “I think you ought to give this matter some thought, Blair.”

Blair had moved on from that conversation and was focussing on the one ahead, so his response was a sophisticated, “Huh?”

“I mean, about the Power of Attorney,” Brackett responded, impatience creeping into his tone.

“Oh, yes. Yes, I will.” Blair paused and turned back to Brackett. “Tell you what, Lee. I’ll give it a lot of thought. You know…” He scratched his chin. “There was a fellow named Winslow here a little while ago, wanted to handle my affairs for nothing, too. It puzzles me why these people all want to work for nothing. It isn’t natural. So I guess I’d better think about it some more. Maybe do some research. I’m good at research.”

**Chapter 6.     From Here to Paternity**  
 ****

Before Blair could exit to join the Theatre Company, Rafe entered again. “Mr. Blair? There’s a Ms. Sanchez to see you, sir.” He held out a card.

“Did you say Sanchez?” Brackett tried to grab it, but Rafe moved deftly out of Brackett’s reach and placed the card on the table where Blair could read it.

“Yes, sir. Ms. Beverly Sanchez. I believe she, like yourself, is a lawyer.”

“Well, don’t let her in!” Brackett ordered.

“Why not?” Blair asked. “Who is she?”

“Nobody!” Brackett answered far to quickly. Blair just stared at him until Brackett looked down at his own cuticles and elaborated a little. “She’s nobody you need to worry about.” A longer pause and he went on. “Beverley Sanchez is a feminist lawyer representing some woman with a claim against the estate.” He turned to Rafe who was still awaiting instructions. “Tell her to see me at the office.”

Rafe waited patiently for directions from Blair, who said, “Well, if she has a claim, we’d better see her. Rafe, please send Ms. Sanchez in.”

“Very good, sir.” Rafe left the room.

“She’s capable of causing you a lot of trouble, Blair,” Brackett warned.

“How can she make any trouble for me? I haven’t done anything.”

Rafe appeared at the door, accompanied by a professional-looking woman in a navy skirted business suit. She had wavy brown hair and a turned-up nose that was very appealing and that she probably hated. “Ms. Sanchez,” Rafe said by way of introduction.

She smiled warmly, held out a hand and took a step in Blair’s direction. “Mr. Sandburg, I’ve heard—”

Brackett rose quickly, interposing himself bodily between the attractive young lawyer and Blair. “I thought I told you to take up this matter with my office, Sanchez.”

“I’m a little tired of being pushed around by you, Brackett.” She raised the hand she’d been holding out to shake Blair’s and she smoothed her hair. “Look. I have a legitimate claim against the Estate of David Lipshitz, and I’m representing a widow and orphan. It’s my sworn duty to make sure their claim is heard.”

“Widow and orphan?” Blair asked, peering around Brackett.

“That’s right, Mr. Sandburg. I represent _Mrs._ Lipshitz.”

Blair’s eyebrows climbed skyward. _“Mrs._ Lipshitz?”

“Yes. Your uncle’s common-law wife. She has a legal claim on the estate.”

“We’ll let the courts decide what her legal position is.” Brackett stepped to the right, bringing himself back in line with Sanchez and Sandburg.

“You wouldn’t dare go into court with a case like this, and you know it!”

She feinted left, then when Brackett scooted that way to keep between them like a basketball guard, she gracefully went right and forward. For Brackett to have countered that move would have meant he’d crash into her and knock her sideways, which was far too sympathetic a position for her to be in. He flailed about wildly, trying to catch his balance. He recovered, but not without looking like a demented windmill for a few seconds. Blair and Ms. Sanchez exchanged a smirk; nobody seemed to like Lee Brackett very much.

“Mr. Sandburg, can you conceive of any court not being in sympathy with any woman who gave up the best years of her life for your uncle?”

“What kind of wife did you say she was?”

“Common-law wife.”

“Common-law? What a coincidence—her last name being Lipshitz, as well.”

Sanchez looked uncomfortable. “Yes, sir. Well, actually, she changed it.”

“Changed it? Why would she do that?” Blair looked more and more confused.

“She wanted to give her son his father’s last name. She didn’t want him to bear the stigma of being a bastard!” Sanchez became impassioned, warming to her topic.

“I know what that’s like. I’m illegitimate myself. It was one of the things Uncle David and my mother fought about. He believed the ‘son-of-a-bitch that knocked her up’—and I’m quoting here—should do the right thing by her. Funny, he said he’d never leave some poor child nameless. He even said if the mother wasn’t willing to marry him, he’d move for legal custody.”

Sanchez looked nervous, Brackett hopeful, Blair sceptical.

“How old is the child?” Blair asked.

“Uh, around four or five. I can check my notes if you need a more accurate number.”

Brackett mumbled something about “being unprepared” and “not having all her facts straight”.

“That’s funny, too, Ms. Sanchez. Over the years, I attended family gatherings and some of his fancy parties. While he always had women around him, he never introduced anyone as his wife, common-law or otherwise. If he’d been seriously involved with someone, if there’d been a child, I think I would have known.”

“That doesn’t mean,” Sanchez leapt back into the fray, “that he didn’t get one of those many women pregnant.”

Brackett jumped in too. “Or that, knowing how he felt about children, one of them got pregnant to trap him into marrying her or at least buying her off!”

Blair looked from one lawyer to the other and back again. He walked over to the intercom and pressed a button. Rafe immediately appeared at the door, almost as if he’d been awaiting the summons. Or listening from the hallway. “Rafe, how well did you know my uncle?”

“Very well, sir.”

“And you’ve worked for him a long time, right? Say, for over a decade?”

“Why, yes. I did.”

“When I used to come here while I was in university, Uncle David had a valet named Peotyr. Did you train under him?”

“Yes. He was my mentor. He runs a very exclusive catering business now. I used his excellent service for all Mr. Lipshitz’s large affairs.”

“Where the hell are you going with this?” Brackett demanded. Sanchez nodded.

Blair was a little worried that the lawyers were now, apparently aligned against him. “A little latitude, please.” Blair chuckled inwardly. “I’m just playing in your court now, pun intended.” Neither lawyer laughed, although Beverly smiled a little.

“Were you here when Uncle David had, what he referred to as _‘la petite opération’?”_

Light dawned in Rafe’s brown eyes. “Yes, sir. It was the only time I’d ever seen him take to his bed. I brought him ice packs for two days.”

“When was that?”

Rafe thought a moment. “It was just after I’d started here. I was so nervous. So almost exactly eleven years ago.”

“And were you privy to what my uncle was referring to by _‘la petite opération’?”_

“Why, yes. Peotyr told me. _In confidence.”_ He looked at Blair, rolling his eyes in the direction of the lawyers.

“I think it’s okay to spill the beans now, Rafe. My uncle’s not going to object, is he?”

“Probably not, sir. But if I were to go around telling Mr. Lipshitz’s personal business, wouldn’t the obvious conclusion be that I would also tell _your_ personal business?”

“We wouldn’t think that, Ralph.” Brackett assured him. He appeared very eager to find out what _‘la petite opération’_ was and why Blair thought it relevant to this claim on the estate.

Sanchez nodded. Blair figured he was still such a wild card to these people that they couldn’t anticipate which side he’d come down on.

He thought about what Rafe was saying about confidentiality. With reporters hounding him, Blair needed to know that he could trust those close to him. He faced Brackett, “Lee, anything Rafe says here today is covered under our client-lawyer privilege, right?” Brackett nodded. “And Ms. Sanchez? What about you? Can you give me your guarantee as a lawyer that whatever Rafe has to tell us remains between the three of us?”

“I’ll need to inform Mrs. Lipshitz of the outcome of this meeting. I can’t necessarily control her, but I can give you my guarantee that I’ll not repeat anything heard here, and that I’ll draw up a gag order and ask her to sign it before I reveal anything.”

“Rafe?” Blair turned to his manservant. “I understand your concern. I admire your loyalty. Are you satisfied that the arrangements here today will guarantee David Lipshitz’s continued privacy?”

“Yes, I am. Thank you, sir. _‘La petite opération’_ was Mr. Lipshitz’s euphemism for ‘vasectomy’. Apparently, he was not interested in having children and thusly ensured that he would father none.”

Brackett had the ill-grace to hoot his triumph. He fisted the air and gave Sanchez an “in your face” look. “We’re going to hit you with a counter-suit to compensate Mr. Sandburg for the trauma he experienced with your stupid nuisance suit.”

“We’ll do no such thing, Brackett.” Blair said tightly. “My time isn’t that valuable, and I’m sure you bill me for every second you hang around here, whether you’re doing lawyerly things or not.”

Sanchez looked shocked. “I’m so sorry to have wasted your time, Mr. Sandburg. Thank you for clearing this up. I can only assume my client was unaware of Mr. Lipshitz’s sterility and had mistakenly assumed that the baby was his.” She looked off in the direction of the window. “It would explain why Mrs. Lipshitz and Mr. Lipshitz both had dark hair, while the child is very blond. I just assumed his hair would darken as he got older.”

“Never mind, Ms. Sanchez. You did what you thought was right. I hope you’re compensated for the time you spent on this.”

“Oh, no. It wasn’t about the money. I took this case on a _pro bono_ basis.”

“But… But…” Brackett sputtered. “If you’d won, your fee could have been huge!”

“I only want to see justice done, Mr. Brackett. I do paying work as well, but Mrs. Lipshitz is very poor and qualifies for government assistance. I took on her case for free.”

Simon Banks appeared in the door. “Blair. That Cascade Royal Theatre Board is ready for you now.”

“Thanks, Simon. I’ll be right down.” He turned to Ms. Sanchez. “Beverley? Can you call me later in the week? Maybe we can work something out.”

Brackett jumped in again. “You can reach Mr. Sandburg via my offices.”

“No,” Blair said. “Rafe, please give Ms. Sanchez my direct number. Uh, Rafe? I have a direct number, don’t I?” Rafe nodded. “Okay, then. When you’re done giving it to Beverley, can I have it too, please.”

Rafe, Beverley and Blair laughed. Lee Brackett did not. Rafe escorted Ms. Sanchez from the room.

“What did I miss?” Simon asked.

**Chapter 7.     Theatre Farts**  
 ****

“Do the theatre people always come here for their meetings?” Blair asked as he and Simon walked down the grand staircase toward the meeting.

“Uh-huh.”

“That’s kind of odd, don’t you think. Why is that?”

“Why do mice go where there’s cheese?” Simon gestured toward the dining room and followed Blair through the double-doors.

A dozen or so people were seated at Blair’s long dining table. They were drinking coffee and snacking on fancy pastries that Rafe had served them while they awaited Blair’s arrival.

Blair approached the distinguished-looking group with obvious trepidation, only too glad to have Simon Banks as back-up. Rich people always made him nervous, even now that he was one.

The man seated at the head of the table rose, extending his hand. He was tall and expensively dressed, with greying temples. He looked every bit the stereotype “benefactor”.

“Hello, Mr. Sandburg. Welcome. Welcome. I’m John Douglas. Call me Jack.” He shook Blair’s hand heartily, making deliberate eye contact. Blair wondered at the protocol of welcoming him to his own home, although, in all fairness, Douglas had probably spent more time there than Blair had.

Douglas ignored Simon, who took a seat at the far end of the table; he turned Blair to face the group and quickly introduced the rest of the Board. Everyone, apparently, had a formal name, such as Joyce, George, James, Brenda, and William. But they all went by nicknames, probably holdovers from some exclusive prep school. There was, among others, Muffy, Gordo, Jimbo, Mitzy and Bren-Bren. Blair didn’t need two-and-a-half degrees in anthropology to recognize a homogeneous group when he saw one. He suddenly felt like an outsider in a way he never did when travelling among indigenous people in foreign lands. He wondered how Simon felt.

“Now, gentlemen,” Douglas was saying. “The first order of business will be the election of a new Chairman of the Board.”

One of the men—possibly Richard who was, apparently, known as “Dick”—rose and ahem’d. “As a sentimental gesture toward the best friend theatre ever had, the late Mr. David Lipshitz, I think it only fitting that his nephew and heir, Blair Sandburg, should be made our next Chairman. I, therefore, nominate him.”

Muffy and Bren-Bren both seconded.

“All those in favour...” Douglas called.

“Aye.” The vote was unanimous.

“Carried,” Douglas pronounced, banging on a little oaken disk with a wooden gavel. “Congratulations, Mr. Sandburg. You are now Chairman of the Board of the Cascade Royal Theatre Company. Come. Sit here.” Instead of giving up his place at the head of the table, Douglas made everyone on the left side of the table shift down a chair.

“I’m… I’m Chairman?” Blair asked, moving to the vacated seat.

“Yes, of course. You’ve just been elected. That’s what this process means, you see. We all took a vote and—”

“Hey, Simon. Guess what? I’m Chairman.” Blair called down the table, ignoring Douglas’s patronizing lecture.

“Mazel tov,” Simon said dryly.

Blair could have kissed him, but the rest of the group seemed focussed on Douglas.

“Now, the next order of business is the reading of the minutes of the last meeting.”

“Move we dispense with it,” called Mitzy or someone. Blair had completely lost track.

“Second!” called one of the men.

“All in favour?”

A chorus of voices said, “Aye!”

“I think they can be dispensed with,” Douglas said. “We’re ready now for the reading of the Treasurer’s report.”

“Move we dispense with it.”

“Second.”

“All in favour?

“Aye!”

“Now, the next business will be—”

“Wait a minute.” Blair interrupted. “What exactly does the Chairman do?”

“Why, the Chairman presides at the meetings.” Douglas looked surprised that Blair wouldn’t already know this.

“That’s what I thought. If you don’t mind, I’m rather interested in the Treasurer’s report. I’d like to hear it.” Blair sat forward, reaching for the gavel as if it were just something handy to toy with. Simon sat forward with interest.

There was an uncomfortable shuffle. For a few minutes, no one spoke. From the rear, a tall man rose.

“Yes, Mr. Chairman. I’m Jimbo Smythe.” Blair appreciated the re-introduction. “The Treasurer reports that the Cascade Royal Theatre Company has generated a…” he shuffled papers, returning to the one on top. “A deficit of $20,000, for the current fiscal year.”

“A deficit! You mean we’ve lost $20,000?”

“You see, Mr. Sandburg, the CRTC is not conducted for profit.”

“It isn’t? What is it conducted for?”

“Why, it’s an artistic institution!” There were indignant nods all around the table. Mitzy drew her cardigan more securely across her shoulders. Muffy toyed with her pearls.

“We own the theatre, don’t we? The actual building, I mean,” Blair asked.

“We do.”

“And we give shows?”

“We give ‘theatrical performances’,” Douglas corrected.

“But you charge. I mean, you sell tickets?”

“Of course.”

“And it doesn’t pay?” Blair asked.

“Of course not. The Cascade Theatre has never ‘paid’.” He put withering little air-quotes around the word ‘paid’. Blair wondered why it was the rich people thought money so demeaning.

Blair scratched his head, pushing a curl back from his forehead. “Well, back in Clayton Falls, our local theatre group put on regular performances.”

“Well, then,” Douglas said. “We’re really very fortunate to have such a knowledgeable theatre expert in our midst.”

“I’m not a theatre expert, and you can cut the sarcasm,” Blair said. “My point is that if our little amateur theatre company back in Clayton Falls could turn a profit, then so can you— _the real theatre experts!”_

Every face around the table registered shock, some turning white with indignation, and others red with anger. Blair had extensive first aid training and thought he was going to have to use CPR on Douglas. There was considerable hubbub, and no one listened when Blair tried to bring them to order. He noticed Simon just about to rise and, hoping to avert a scene, he grabbed the gavel and banged on the disk, hard.

“Order. Order,” he shouted. Over his lifetime, Blair had sat on and chaired dozens of committees. You couldn’t swing a grad student at an academic association or a charitable endeavour without hitting a committee or twelve. He knew Robert’s Rules Order like he knew the words to “We Shall Overcome”. If this group of self-important patrons thought he was easy, he would show them a thing or two.

“What then, Mr. Chairman, do you suggest?” Douglas asked, knuckles white from gripping the arms of his chair so tightly.

Blair sat back and steepled his fingers. “At this point, I’m thinking of all the great musicals that are mounted in urban centres across the globe. They make money, or nobody’d be doing them. I wonder if we’re maybe putting on the wrong kind of shows.”

Simon Banks smiled. The directors were stumped.

“The wrong kind! There isn’t any wrong or right kind. Theatre is theatre!” Douglas was practically apoplectic.

“I guess it is. But I personally wouldn’t care to be head of a business that kept losing money. That wouldn’t be common sense. Incidentally, where was the $20,000 coming from?”

“Well, we were rather expecting it to come from you.”

“Me?” Blair squeaked, clutching the gavel as if he meant to use it in self-defence.

“Naturally.”

“Excuse me, gentlemen, there’s nothing natural about that.”

“You see, Mr. Sandburg, the theatre was not conducted like any ordinary business.”

“Why not?”

“Because it just isn’t a business, that’s all!” Douglas cried. “Your uncle was a great supporter of the arts. A true humanitarian.”

Implying I’m not, Blair thought. He rolled his eyes. The more excited the Committee became, the calmer he felt. When you’d faced hostile tribes on the Amazon and drug runners in Mexico, a group of well-meaning Cascadians wasn’t all that threatening. “Well, maybe it isn’t a business to you, but it certainly is a business to me, if I have to make up a loss of $20,000. If it’s losing that much money, there must be something wrong. Maybe you charge too much. Maybe you’re not charging enough. Maybe you’re selling bad merchandise. Maybe lots of things. I don’t know. I’m hoping to do a lot of good with the money my uncle left me, and I can’t afford to put it into anything that I don’t look into. I want a full report on my desk in two weeks analyzing what we’re doing wrong and looking into what other theatre companies are doing right. That’s my decision for the time being. Goodbye and thank you for making me Chairman. Er, Chairperson. Uh. Chair.”

These were good people, he reasoned, the kind of people who make things happen, who are willing to give their time to a worthwhile endeavour. They just needed a bit of a paradigm shift in their thinking. He’d helped turn volunteer boards around before, and he felt he’d made a good start.

He headed for the door, then turned back again. _“Rent!”_ he cried.

“I told you,” Douglas said. “We own the building. There’s no rent, and your uncle paid off the mortgage years ago.” He had passed angry and was well into long-suffering.

“No, man. _Rent!,_ the musical. It’s the big thing all over these days. We should mount a production of that.”

“Oh, my,” breathed Muffy-Buffy-Puffy. “Isn’t that about hustlers and drug addicts?”

“Don’t forget homosexuals,” laughed Blair. “It’ll be great. Look into it. Dick?” The Treasurer’s head flew up. He obviously wasn’t comfortable to be included in this part of the conversation. “Dick, draw up a budget for a big time musical. My desk… er, dining room table. Two weeks.”

He headed out of the dining room. Simon rose to follow his new boss. “Gentlemen, Ladies. I look very much forward to your next dramatic production. I understand _Rent!_ also features Negroes.”

 

**Chapter 8.     Escape Claws**

Simon had enjoyed retelling the Theatre Board story over lunch. Blair had insisted that the tailors join them, although Rafe had declined, saying he’d prefer to serve. Since Maurice and Travis were tailors to all the wealthy of Cascade, they had some interesting but not too personal tidbits to share about Mitzy and Muffy and Dick.

Brackett has been uncomfortable about having “staff” eat with him, but he too had enjoyed the account; hearing stories in which his peers were taken down a peg always warmed his heart.

After the tailors had left and Simon was busy on the phone, Brackett took advantage of the privacy to speak with Blair. “That was very astute, Blair,” Brackett said, helping himself to more pâté. “Being your attorney will be a very simple affair.”

“You’re not my attorney yet, Lee. Please don’t act on my behalf without talking to me about it. I know you have my best interests at heart, but I’ve never had anyone ‘manage’ my stuff before, and I’m really not comfortable with it yet. Okay?” Blair smiled, hoping he didn’t look too mean. He didn’t want to hurt Lee’s feelings, but he really felt he had to take a stand, and now was as good a time as any. “You know, asking the theatre treasurer for his report kind of got me in the mood for some accounting.” He rubbed his hands together like he was about to embark on a fun adventure. “Suppose next time you come by, you bring the books for my uncle’s estate so I can have a look at them. Okay?”

Brackett blanched, but recovered quickly. “Yes, of course, if you wish. But you must be prepared for a lot of work. I’ll have the books ready in a couple of weeks. And then, I warn you, it’ll probably take you a couple of months to do through them.” He gathered some papers together and shoved them in his briefcase. “If it becomes annoying, you let me know. I can have someone from our accounting department prepare an executive summary and save you a lot of time and headache.”

“I might take you up on that, Lee, but I’d like the chance to decide for myself. The books, two weeks. ‘Kay?”

“‘Kay,” Brackett answered, looking worried.

~ ~ ~

Blair ate dinner alone, glad to be rid of Brackett, but missing Simon’s company a little. Still, he hadn’t had a moment to himself since he’d returned to Cascade, and it was kind of nice to be alone with Burton’s monograph. He’d read it through quickly once and was now halfway through it a second time, carefully making notes as he went. If he ever found that Sentinel, he’d be ready.

He stretched. He’d been stuck in this house since he’d gotten there, the media mob on the street penning him in. He decided he’d go out tonight, hit a bar, have some fun.

He was reminded that he was not really alone when Rafe entered his bedroom to find him pawing through his closet, trying to find something to wear.

“Is there anything you’d like, sir? An apéritif, perhaps?”

Blair pondered a moment, then turned to face Rafe. “There’s two things I want you to do for me, Rafe.”

“Sir?”

“First, call me Blair.”

“Blair,” he tried on the word. “Yes, sir. Blair.” He looked concerned.

“Something wrong, Rafe?”

“No, sir. Yes, sir.”

“What? Did I do something wrong. I’m new at the whole rich-bitch thing. Cut me some slack, will you?” Blair grinned, hoping he hadn’t done anything offensive. He liked Rafe, and although he was sure he’d get the same level of service one way or the other, he really hoped that Rafe liked him, too.

“Well, if you don’t mind too terribly much, I’d prefer not to call you by your first name. I’m just not comfortable with that level of informality.” He glanced at Blair who was standing in boxer shorts and socks. “I’m rather old school, you know.”

“Hmmm. It’s not that you don’t like me or anything, is it?”

“Oh, no, sir. It’s like the lights have gotten brighter since you’ve been here. I liked working for your uncle, but he could be stodgy and set in his ways. You’re rather a breath of fresh air. I especially enjoyed your handling of the Theatre Board.”

“Oh, uh. Well, I like you, too. If you’re not comfortable calling me Blair, and I’m not going to answer to ‘sir’, how ‘bout a compromise, then?”

“Sir?”

“Call me, uh, Mr. Blair.”

“Very good, Mr. Blair. I do believe I can live with that. Now, you said there were two things?”

“Second, stop pretending you think I’m straight, and direct me to the best gay bar in town, will you?”

Rafe perked right up, looking absolutely delighted. “Why yes, sir! Mr. Blair. It’s called Club Doom, and it’s on Channing Street.” He laid a finger alongside his nose. “Your secret is safe with me, Blair.”

“What secret? I’m pretty out about the whole thing, really. Besides, who’d care, anyway?”

With that, he tossed Rafe the newly tailored pants, which Rafe caught expertly. Blair grabbed his soft, old denim jeans and a tank top. Adding a slightly less worn plaid shirt, he stood in front of the mirror. “How do I look, Rafe?”

“I’m sure a lot of people at Club Doom will be very attracted to you in that outfit.”

Adding a second diamond stud to his ear lobe, Blair turned. “And they would be…?” he prodded, hearing some underlying note in Rafe’s voice.

“Why the lesbians, of course, Mr. Blair.” He raised one eyebrow. “Perhaps plaid was the fashion statement of choice in… where was it?”

“Clayton Falls.” Blair sighed and removed the shirt.

“Allow me, Blair.” Rafe strode quickly to Blair’s immense closet and found a white silk shirt of clean lines and generous cut. He held it out for Blair, who stepped back into it. It fit him like it had been made for him, largely because it had.

“Okay, man. Point taken.” His diamond studs sparkled as did his dark-blue eyes. “Somehow I feel safer putting myself in your hands than that prick, Brackett’s.”

“You have impeccable taste, sir. Have a good evening.”

“Thanks, Rafe. You, too. You’re taking off now, right?”

“You won’t need me again this evening?”

“Nah. I won’t even be home, so do whatever it is you do. Maybe I’ll see you later.” Blair left the question dangling about whether Rafe frequented this Club Doom. He didn’t expect an answer; Rafe was entitled to the privacy he so obviously valued.

Blair exited his dressing room. At the top of a grand staircase, he glanced around. Seeing no one was watching, he slide down the banister and patted the statue at the bottom for good luck. Chuckling, he headed for the front door only to find his way barred by a large, husky black man who popped out of an alcove. “Can I, uh, help you?” Was this a reporter? Lawyer? Long-lost relative?

“Hey, man. I’m Henry. You going out?”

“Why, yes, Henry. Is that all right?”

“No. Well, yes. Okay. Where are we going?

“Excuse me. I don’t want to be rude, Henry. But, ah, who are you?”

Henry blinked. “Didn’t Simon tell you? I’m your bodyguard _du jour._ You don’t go anywhere without me.”

“Oh, right. I think Simon did say something about that. You’re an off-duty policeman?”

“That’s right. I’m a detective. Worked with Simon when he was with the force. He needed somebody he could trust on you, and I could use a little extra cash. Big anniversary coming up.” He grinned. “Simon said stick to your tail no matter what. And we all know how to play ‘Simon says,’ right?” He laughed at his own joke. He seemed like an affable person.

“That’s very nice of Simon, but I don’t want anybody sticking to my tail no matter what or otherwise.”

“Sorry, Mr. Sandburg. I’ve got my orders.”

“Henry, I’m confused about something here; maybe you can help me out.” He glanced up at Henry’s pleasant, round face.

“Sure thing, Mr. Sandburg.”

“Blair. Call me Blair,” he said absently. “So here’s the thing. For some odd reason, I was under the impression that my life was my life and my whereabouts were my business.”

“Oh, right.” Henry made a huge, unsubtle wink. “You don’t have to worry about that. _‘I see nothink. I hear nothink. I know nothink.’_ ” He quoted the old Sixties sitcom, pointing at his eyes, ears and, head as he did so. “Unless of, course, you do something illegal. Then I’ll have to arrest you.” He laughed out loud at this.

“Oh, okay then.” Blair smiling. “This is going to be fun.”

“Some people like it.”

Blair glanced around the room thoughtfully. “Give me a hand with something before we go out?”

“Sure!”

“I got a trunk in that room. Will you get it out for me?”

“Sure. No problemo.”

Blair opened the door to a study and ushered Henry through before him. “In that corner. The light switch is on the far wall.” Blair watched Henry take a few careful steps into the room, hands in front of him like a sleepwalker, feeling his way in the darkness. When Henry was halfway across the room, Blair closed the door and locked it.

“Hey, hey!” Henry cried, _“Ow!”_ There was the sound of crashing furniture, then pounding on the door. “I’m your bodyguard. You can’t do this! Simon’ll flay me alive!”

Blair felt guilty for a moment. Yelling back through the door, he said, “I’ll explain to Simon. I’ll pay you for your time. I’ll tell Rafe…” He glanced up to see Rafe watching from the upper mezzanine. Blair figured he’d been there the whole time and flushed a little, thinking about the slide down the banister. Henry pounded on the door again and rattled the knob forcefully. Blair hoped the art nouveau handle was up to the challenge; it looked like it was original to the house, and he’d hate to see it damaged. “I’ll have Rafe let you out in 20 minutes. Okay?” He heard only silence. “If you kick this door down, you could hurt yourself. And I’ll tell Simon you lost me through incompetence, and then he’ll be way pissed at you. So what do you say? Can I leave now?”

There was a long pause during which Blair was sure Henry was nodding. Finally Henry called out, “Okay. Okay, Mr. Sandburg. You’re a good man, and those are fair terms. Have fun tonight. By the way, where did you say you were going?”

Blair laughed—you had to give the man credit for trying. He glanced up at Rafe, who touched his watch and gave him a thumbs up. Blair saluted him back in similar style and headed out without answering poor Henry.

Blair peeked through the front curtains. There was a gaggle of people milling about in front of his house. They were probably reporters and scam artists and maybe even a needy soul or two, but Blair couldn’t sort them out tonight. Later in the week he’d get a system in place to sort out the worthy from the unworthy, the legitimate causes from the illegitimate, the greedy from the needy. But tonight, he needed to let off a little steam and have a little time away from lawyers and minders, bodyguards, and manservants.

Rafe appeared at his side. “May I suggest the back way, Mr. Blair?” He gestured toward the kitchen, every inch the genteel gentleman’s gentleman, but there was something knowing and cunning in his eyes. “It’s proved… useful in the past. Mr. Lipshitz and Mrs. Owens-Thomas from next door had a reciprocal arrangement for avoiding the media and other unpleasantness. You go through their yard, and, when needed, she cuts through yours.”

Blair grinned. He was liking Rafe better and better all the time. “What constitutes ‘other unpleasantness’?”

“Mr. Owens-Thomas, actually.”

Blair laughed outright and departed via the kitchen.

 

**Chapter 9.     Not for the Feint of Heart**  
 ****

Across the street, Jim Ellison lurked in the shadows; Megan Connor, his photographer-partner from the _Times,_ stood nearby. Jim was very intent. He chuckled and mumbled something. She shook her shoulder-length hair back from her face, not bothering to ask Jim what he meant by “poor Henry”.

“Okay.” Jim said. “Get ready. He’s coming out.” He pushed off from the tree he’d been leaning against and strode up the street.

“Where are you heading?” Megan asked, but she knew from experience not to expect an answer although it killed her not to know what was going on. It was just not in her nature to follow blindly, although she had to admit that since partnering with Ellison, they’d managed to scoop the other reporters almost every time. She hurried after Jim, state-of-the-art digital camera at the ready.

“Stay in the shadows on this side of the street. Zoom lens only.”

“But I—” she protested.

Jim put a finger to his lips, then whispered, “Tonight you’re not going to get close to him. But I will. Snap whatever you can get. He’s going to come out _that_ house.” He pointed to the property next to the former Lipshitz residence.

Megan began to argue again, but let it go. Ellison was the good at this—uncannily so. He pointed to a bus shelter a few yards up the block and nodded. She headed to it. Ellison crossed the street and waited.

~ ~ ~

Blair crept through his neighbours’ yard, hopped a fence and headed out their front walk. He hoped he hadn’t set off any silent alarms. Their wrought iron gate creaked softly, then snicked closed behind him. It only opened from the inside, but he figured he’d be able to get back in via his uncle’s place—his own place, now, he reminded himself. Surely, the crowd in front of it would have thinned out to a manageable size by the time he got home. He intended to de-stress tonight and figured that would take until the wee hours. And a lot of dancing. Possibly some making out. But first, he wanted to do some anthro-stalking.

He was psyched and started off down the street in the direction away from the gathering in front of his place.

A tall man was walking down the street toward him. The man seemed very focussed on him. Blair’s first thought was that this was another, more clever reporter. The man stopped directly in front of him, staring at him. Blair looked into pale blue eyes—eyes that seemed to grow vacant as he gazed at Blair. The man seemed to sniff Blair, then his face grew slack, and he slowly collapsed, just kind of falling in on himself.

Blair reacted instinctively, clutching at the man, managing to ease him to his knees, rather than have the guy crash into the concrete like a felled redwood.

“Hey, man. What’s the matter? What’s wrong?” Kneeling himself, he supported the man with one arm, while feeling for a pulse with the other. Finding what seemed to him a strong, healthy pulse, Blair refrained from calling out to the oblivious hangers-on halfway down the block. Although this man’s health came before any other concerns, he’d see if the guy had maybe just fainted before he fed the hungry media jackals exactly what they craved. He’d once travelled with a man who had _petit mal_ epileptic seizures, and he knew that patience and encouragement were what was called for. “Hey, man. Come back to me now. Listen to the sound of my voice.” Blair drew breath to begin his litany anew, when the man seemed to come back to himself.

“Where? I…” The blue eyes fluttered open, the pupils huge in the darkness. Blair wondered if the guy was stoned or something. He looked pretty clean-cut, although that was no real indicator to sobriety. The man blinked a few times, then suddenly looked embarrassed. He pushed Blair away, not roughly, but firmly, then needed to lean on him again a moment later.

“Are you okay, man? You don’t have to stand up yet.”

“I’m okay, I think.” He pulled on Blair, stood, swayed a bit, finally standing upright without assistance. “I… What happened?” He looked warily at Blair, around him, and back at Blair.

“You fainted or something. Do you get these, uh, episodes much?”

“I’m fine. I’m fine.”

Blair kept a hand on the man’s arm in case he started to sway again.

He yanked his arm from Blair’s grasp. “I don’t need any help.” The man seemed pissed now. Blair figured he was just doing the macho embarrassment-equals-anger thing. It was tedious but normal.

“Look, my house is just over there if you’d like to come in and sit down. I can call a doctor for you.”

“No. I’m all right.”

The man seemed about to snap at him again, when he suddenly changed his tone. “Well, I guess I haven’t eaten much today. I just got a new job, and I’ve been putting in extra hours.” He passed a trembling hand over his face. “In all the excitement, I guess I forgot to eat. Uh, thanks, by the way.” He gave Blair a quick smile, and for the first time Blair noticed how handsome he was. The man turned and headed back the way he’d come.

Blair watched him go, then darted after him as the man began to sway again, clutching at a nearby security fence to keep his balance.

He charged up to the man, who gave him a wry smile. “It’s a blood-sugar thing, I guess.”

Blair was about to insist the guy come back home with him when shouts behind him told him the paparazzi had finally noticed the action down the block. He needed to get the guy out of there. Across the street, a taxi just happened to be idling.

“Hey, taxi!” Blair called loudly. He dragged the man over to the cab and shoved him in. “The Rainier University Alumni Centre, please.”

The driver nodded and pulled away from the curb. He picked up a radio mike and repeated Blair’s directions: “Rainier University Alumni Centre.”

Stepping out from behind a tree, Megan balanced camera equipment and walkie-talkie, “RUAC centre. Got it!” she confirmed, rushing for her car as the rest of the paparazzi ran after the cab.

**Chapter 10.      Shredded Wit**  
 ****

The dining room at RUAC was both elegant and crowded. It seemed that some scholarly group or academic conference met there every night of the week. After his extended time as a student, Blair was no stranger to its ferned ambience and felt it was nice to be back after several years away.

He and Jim Elliott—they’d finally gotten around to introducing themselves—sat at a corner table. Jim had acted surprised to find himself having dinner with Cascade’s newest celebrity. He’d known about the Lipshitz fortune and its reluctant heir, of course. It had been front-page news. But since no photographer had managed to get a recent picture, the only photo the papers were running had been obtained from the University. And the man currently dining on a large bowl of jambalaya didn’t much resemble his Rainier Student ID picture from a dozen years earlier. Jim said he hadn’t made the connection.

Jim poked his fork at a last piece of steak. He popped it in his mouth almost reluctantly. Sitting back, a hand caressing his now-rounded tummy, he groaned, “I ate too much.”

“But you feel better now?”

“Yeah. Thanks. It was great. I feel a little steadier on my feet. Or at least on my chair.” He grinned that killer grin again. “Thanks, Blair.”

“Do you have these, uh, episodes often?” Blair repeated his earlier question, hoping it would give less offence this time. Jim gave him a sharp look, so he added, “I hope you don’t mind me asking.”

Jim took a deep breath. “Yeah. No. Well, I did for a while. I was a cop, and there was this incident, and I started having these problems. Like tonight. Then I couldn’t be a cop any more. I’ve been trying to find something else to settle into since then. I still get these ‘episodes’ as you called them from time to time. I never know what’s going to set them off. Plus, I have all sorts of environmental and food reactions.” He looked ruefully at Blair. “I guess I’m just kind of fucked up.

Blair quickly changed the subject. It was no good to say “No, you’re not!” when he didn’t really know the guy. It just wouldn’t ring true, so Blair found something positive to dwell on instead. “But you’ve found something now? You said you have a new job.”

“Yeah. An old friend gave me a break. You’re looking at _The Cascade Times’_ newest employee.”

“As a reporter?” Blair asked sharply. He wasn’t suspicious by nature, but this past week had made him more aware of his surroundings than he usually was in the jungle.

“I wish. Someday, maybe. Nah. More like general office help. Their insurance provider won’t let me out in the field in any sort of official capacity, so I’m just sort of hanging around and making myself useful. That’s what I was doing here tonight.”

Blair waited, nodding for Jim to go on.

“One of the photographers called. She’d forgotten the flash attachment for her camera, and I was running it out to her on my way home.”

“It’s 9:30. That’s a late shift. What time did you start?”

“Around 6:30 this morning, I think.” Jim picked up a roll and started tearing it into little pieces.

“Six-thir—! That’s a helluva long shift. When did you eat last?”

Jim stared at the ceiling. “Uh, yesterday, maybe. Maybe the day before.” He shrugged, then looked down at his plate. “And now, I’ve eaten a lot. Thanks.” He patted his stomach again. “You’re a real lifesaver.”

The waiter approached them, asking if they wanted dessert or coffee. Both men elected to have coffee, and Jim, at Blair’s insistence, ordered the cherry cheesecake.

“Has anybody come in yet, Tom?” Blair asked the waiter. The staff at the RUAC were recruited from among the grad students who needed extra money for tuition and expenses. Upon Blair’s inquiry, their waiter had told them his name and that he was pursuing a sociology Masters.

“Anybody from the anthro conference?” Tom scanned the room. “Oh, no. Nobody important. But they probably will. All roads lead to RUAC.” He grinned.

Blair smiled back. “You’ll let me know, right?”

Tom agreed. He’d taken several anthro courses, he’d said, and so knew the big-name anthropology professors and guest lecturers by sight.

“I’m an anthropologist myself, you know,” Blair said.

The waiter gave Blair a once-over, probably to see if _he_ was somebody important.

“But I never finished my doctorate.”

“Uh-huh.” The waiter suddenly noticed the people across the room that had been waving at him for some time. “Excuse me, sir.”

Blair felt a little deflated. He’d been looking forward to seeing some old colleagues or putting faces to some of the authors whose papers he’d read in the quarterly anthro journal, _“Travels With My Ant.”_ He was lost in thought when Jim brought the conversation back to Blair’s own recent activities.

“You’ve been having quite an exciting time here, haven’t you? All those meetings and business deals and society people. Been having fun?”

“No. That is, I wasn’t.” He paused, studying Jim. “Until I met you. I’m enjoying talking to you. Imagine my finding you right on my doorstep.” Blair looked a little suspicious again, but the waiter approached their table and derailed his train of thought.

“Stoddard just came in,” the waiter announced as he topped up their coffees.

“Eli? Where?”

“Over at that big table. The whole table is full of the big guys just in from the anthro conference. Stoddard was today’s keynote speaker.”

“You were there?” Blair asked, wistfully.

“I used to be an anthro major.” Tom shrugged as he tidied their table and asked if they cared for anything else.

Blair didn’t respond, staring in the direction of the anthro table. A group of men and women were in the process of settling in at a long table. They had that distinctly professorial look. The men, regardless of age, all had ponytails, including one balding fellow with a white, rather wispy one. Their dress was casual and seemed to involve a lot of khaki as if they might have to rush off to a jungle or desert at a moment’s notice. The women wore nubby natural fibres and large clunky jewellery in silver or brass. Their hair ran the gamut of short styles, all shot with grey—no fancy, high-maintenance hairstyles for them. Everyone wore bracelets; the men tended towards leather thongs with a few primitive beads floating loose, while the women wore rows of clanking silver bangles that danced up and down their forearms when they gestured or buttered their rolls.

Blair toyed with his own leather bracelet, sliding the single African trading bead back and forth absent-mindedly while starting at the conferencees. He looked quickly at his coffee when Tom approached the table of anthropologists. The waiter leaned in a little, although not too close, whispering to Stoddard. The Professor looked around the room, then focussed where Tom directed. There was conferring and laughter. Blair blushed dark red; Jim looked angry.

The waiter headed back their way. “They said to tell you to join them. Hey, I didn’t realize you were that Sandburg guy.” He looked conflicted; he probably figured a former grad student turned millionaire would remember his starving student days and be a big tipper. Or not.

Blair looked across the room tentatively. Stoddard and the other anthropologists waved and beckoned. Blair’s spirits bounced back instantly. “They want me—us—to join them, Jim. That’s great.”

Jim didn’t look so sure. “I don’t know, Blair. These guys are pretty full of themselves. What if they—?”

“Hey, what do you know about these guys?”

“I meant, guys like these…”

“That’s just anti-academic prejudice, Jim. I’m surprised at you. Now they’ve invited us over. You don’t need to come if you’d rather not, but I’m going.” He stood up and strode across the room, only glancing back once to make sure Jim was coming. He didn’t intend to abandon his new friend and was glad to see that Jim chose not to call his bluff, but followed along instead.

“Sandburg!” called Stoddard far too loudly since Blair was now standing right beside his chair. “Hey, everybody, this is Sandburg. I took you with me to Bora Bora one time, didn’t I?”

“Borneo, actually, sir. Nice to see you—”

“So, you’re a millionaire now. Well, doesn’t that just knock the dust off your mummy!”

There was general laughter and uncaught introductions around the table as everyone squeezed over to allow the waiter to fit in two more chairs. There were far more fussing and discussing and pinched fingers than would normally be necessary. Blair realized his new table-mates had made the rounds of several of the finer drinking establishments in town before ending up at the RUAC for dinner.

“Hey, John,” Stoddard called. “A little service here.”

“Uh, it’s Tom,” Blair corrected.

“Uh, what? Yes. Yes. He was in one of my sections. You think I don’t know the names of my students?” Stoddard looked like he was going to lose his temper, but then appeared to lose his train of thought instead. “Yes! Sandburg here had a very unusual thesis proposal. A drink for Mr. Sandburg!”

Tom appeared and put a couple more beers down in front of Jim and Blair.

“Tell us, Sandburg. Did you ever find one of those sentients you were looking for?”

“It was _Sentinels._ I had hundreds of documented cases of people with one or two heightened senses, but I never found anybody with all five.”

Beside him, Jim choked on his beer. Blair rubbed his back and handed him a clean napkin.

“So you built your entire Ph.D. thesis on a single idea and then weren’t able to substantiate it. Why the hell would anyone—” Stoddard interrupted himself when Tom returned. “Bring a round for the table. It’s on Sandburg here. He can afford it.”

The rest of the anthro crew, who were obviously big members of the Eli Stoddard sycophant society, raised their glasses in salute, crying “Sandburg!” in something far from unison.

“I found lots of references to Sentinels in many of the first anthropological books and early explorer journals. Apparently, each tribe or village—”

“That was that quack, Sir Richard Burton, right?” asked the woman on Jim’s left.

“Oh, him,” commented the man across from her. “He was such a twit. And all those marriages. Although I probably would have married Elizabeth Taylor if she’d’ve really, really begged,” he cackled.

“Not that quack Sir Richard Burton, the other one. The explorer, not the actor. I’m surprised you ever got a degree, Reggie,” another woman said.

“My area of expertise is Inuit studies, my dear. What do I care for some guy who explored South Africa?”

Blair jumped back in again, “But there are reports, documented reports of Sentinels among the Inuit and the other First Nations people of North America. Why the Algonquin Tribe—”

Blair was interrupted by a loud _“whooo-ooo-ooo”_ from Reggie-the-Inuit-expert in the most tasteless ululation of political incorrectness Blair had witnessed in a long time.

“So you abandoned that ridiculous field of study and wrote on what, instead?” one of the bangled women asked.

“I didn’t. I still hope to someday find a Sentinel. Maybe even a Sentinel/Guide pair. Each Sentinel had a Guide, someone to watch his back and—”

“Hey,” cried the man next to Blair. “I can see down your blouse, Cassandra. I must be a Sentinel! Let me see if I’m extra touchy-feely, too.” He reached toward the woman across the table from him, his hand snapping open and closing like a hungry maw. She shrieked with laughter, yanking her plunging peasant blouse up over her cleavage an inch or two.

“Sentinel this, Archie!” The man next to Cassandra stood up and gave his own crotch a squeeze à la Michael Jackson. He turned toward Blair, then Jim. “Maybe Sandburg would like to give me a little Sentinel job. Or how ‘bout the boyfriend?”

Blair was horrified. Jim looked around the table, getting more and more pissed.

“I did the research. I got the grant. I was encouraged…” Blair’s voice was low. He was practically whispering. “You, Eli…”

The waiter passed by and deposited another three bottles of wine on the table. A general free-for-all ensued until the table was spattered with red wine and other wet marks.

“Maybe I should look into Sentinels myself,” a man named Geoffrey said. “I could use a few more years of grant money.” He took a deep swig of his wine. “With nothing to show for it in the end!”

The table rang with laughter and toasts: “To Sandburg!”, “To grants!”, “To Sentinels!”

“And what is your field of expertise, Jim?” Geoffrey now turned his wit on Jim.

“I’m a psychic, actually.” Jim lied.

“A psychic?” Cassandra asked, leaning her chin drunkenly on one hand; perhaps she thought she looked winsome, or maybe she’d topple over without the added support. “That’s so interesting.” Clearly she thought it wasn’t. “Tell me something about me.” She blinked flirtatiously.

Jim sat back and looked at her. He inhaled once, deeply. He placed one hand theatrically on his forehead and stared at the ceiling. “At some point between leaving the lecture hall and arriving here, you disappeared for a few minutes.” The table nodded, a bit interested. Cassandra looked a bit uncomfortable. “At the same time, this man…” Jim pointed a long, accusing finger at a man further down the table.

“Freddy?” said a woman sitting next to him, presumably Freddy’s wife. “Yes, Freddy.” Jim confirmed like a pro. “Also disappeared. You!” Jim pointed to the wife. “He disappeared long enough that you began to wonder why he was so long in the bathroom.” She nodded, growing angrier by the second. “I guess he has stamina, eh, Cassandra?”

“I… But…” she sputtered. “It’s not true!”

“Your lips are red and swollen, and if you look closely at her, uh, cleavage, there’s a wet spot which is thick and sticky and will later dry crusty.” He winked hugely so that no one would mistake his meaning.

There was general uproar at the table. Jim rose, pulling Blair up with him. “You!” He pointed at Stoddard like an avenging angel. “You should stop sleeping with your students and then stealing their ideas and passing them off as your own!” He sniffed the air again. “And that dope you think you’re smoking—it’s oregano. You’d think you’d have developed some _expertise_ since the sixties.” Jim ran his gaze up and down the table. Each person shrank from him when his gaze fell upon them. He snorted. “You’re not worth it.” And turned away.

“C’mon, Chief.” He grabbed the stunned Blair and dragged him toward the exit.

Tom the waiter hurried to catch them. “Your bill, Mr. Sandburg.” He was grinning hugely.

Blair examined the bill quickly. “This isn’t right. You didn’t put the wine and stuff from their table. This is only for the meal Jim and I had before we joined them.”

“I think that’s exactly right, sir. I have Professor Stoddard’s credit card on file, and I’ll make sure the necessary charges go through.” He winked and finished processing the bill through the register. “Thanks for a wonderful evening. Come back soon.” He held the door for the two men as they departed, stepping out after them. “I can’t thank you enough for that. Stoddard stole my thesis idea and claimed it as his own. Published a paper based on _my_ research! Then the fucker failed me. I was just telling that to this new girl earlier, while you guys were eating. She was all ‘Eli this’ and ‘Eli that’. I didn’t want her to have the same shit experience with the guy that I did.” He shook Blair’s hand, then Jim’s. “It was because of that rat bastard I switched from anthro to soc., but thanks to you tonight, I think I just might switch back!”

Blair grinned for the first time since his thesis topic had become the subject of much hilarity. “Don’t let the bastards get you down,” he said. He pulled a wad of bills from his pocket. “Here. From Cascade’s newest millionaire to Rainier’s next anthropologist.” He forced the bills into Tom’s hand despite some pretty sincere protests.

Jim and Blair headed down Channing Street to a gradually receding litany of thanks from Tom that continued until the maitre d’ pulled him back in the dining room.

“Wow, Jim.” Blair practically danced down the street. He punched Jim in the arm. “That was terrific. How’d you know all that stuff? Are you really psychic?”

“Nah. Don’t forget, I used to be a detective.” He punched Blair’s arm in return, leaving Blair to puzzle out how he’d known.

Jim slung his arm loosely over Blair’s shoulder, feeling like all was right in the world. For the first time in ages, he was free of the ravages of his crazy senses. A clock in a nearby tower chimed 11:00. “I’ve got about another hour before pumpkin time, Chief. I got an early day tomorrow,” Jim explained. “Anything you want to do in that hour? Assuming you want to spend it with me, that is.”

“Let’s go for a walk in the park. It’s lovely this time of year.” And they headed off toward Cascade’s closest green space.

**Chapter 11.     A Sense of Rumour**  
 ****

_“‘I still search for a research subject even though I’ll probably never finish my thesis,’”_ Joel read aloud. _“This is one of the many startling statements made by Blair Sandburg, Cascade’s newest millionaire. Sandburg apparently went out last night to prove that his uncle, the late David Lipshitz, from whom he inherited $20 million, was not the most eccentric member in the family. According to Dr. Eli Stoddard, eminent anthropologist and former academic advisor to Mr. Sandburg, Sandburg believes in a boogeyman called ‘a Sentinel’ and feels his role in life is to become_ The Guide! _And he’s been_ guiding _Cascade through a series of wild events._ The Guide _was seen last night standing Cascade’s intelligentsia on its gifted ear.”_

Joel gazed fondly at his favourite reporter who sprawled in a guest chair across from Joel’s huge editor’s desk.

 _“The Guide!_ That’s sensational, Jim! Sensational! Our readers will eat it up. The competition will be forced to quote _us!”_

Jim smiled and touched the brim of his Jags cap in acknowledgement of the praise.

“How’d you get close to him, Jim? Nobody else could.”

Jim looked a little uncomfortable. “It took some high-powered acting, believe me,” he obfuscated.

Joel waited, nodding and looking fascinated. “Go on.” Joel was a friend and colleague, and never played the boss card with Jim. He didn’t have to. After a lifetime of hierarchical environments—his father’s house, the army, the police force—Jim unconditionally responded to questions from a superior, either direct or implied.

He really didn’t want to go into it. He felt kind of guilty about misleading Sandburg, but then the only thing he’d really lied about was his actual position with the paper. And everybody lied about their job, anyway. “I faked a fainting spell,” he mumbled.

“What?” Joel asked.

“I faked a fainting spell,” Jim practically shouted. “I followed the guy from his house and faked a fainting spell. You should have seen me, I was a real Southern Belle.” He should have mimed a delicate flower of womanhood, but was actually disgusted with himself, not because he’d faked it, but because he hadn’t. He’d gotten lost in Sandburg’s deep blue eyes, and the next thing he’d known, he was on his knees in the guy’s arms; and not in a good way either. He hated his fucked-up senses and all the baggage that went with them. He could feel a killer headache coming on.

“And he went for it?”

“Hook, line and sinker. He helped me up and invited me in to his house despite the media circus we’d have to pass through. I wanted to see him interacting with people, though, so I said no. He got us a cab and took me to dinner. The rest is there, in my article.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose.

“Was he really that big a sap?”

Jim was surprised, but Joel looked so eager. Scooping the other newspapers was a big deal to him. Jim supposed he shouldn’t be surprised that the former head of the bomb squad was a bit of an adrenaline junkie. “He’s an original, all right, Joel. There are no carbon copies of Blair Sandburg.”

 _“The Guide!_ That nickname just might stick with him the rest of his life. Can you imagine Simon Banks’s face when he reads this?”

Jim genuinely smiled at that one. He liked Simon but enjoyed beating him at this as he would a good game of golf. It wasn’t the first time since their career paths had diverged that they’d gone up against one another; Jim trying to get an interview and Simon trying to protect his client.

“How’d you get the pictures?” Joel held up the paper although Jim had already seen it. There were several pictures. The first showed Blair shoving someone into a cab, looking furtively back over his shoulder. It looked like he was up to no good, when in fact, he’d been helping Jim into the cab before the media could get to them. The man couldn’t be identified as Jim at all. The caption read, _“The Guide guides a man into a taxi, whether he wants to or not.”_

The second, showed him staring googly-eyed at some rather impressive cleavage while his hand reached across the table toward her breasts as she screamed and clutched them protectively. It wasn’t, of course, Blair’s hand at all, and if one looked closer, one could tell it belonged to the man seated next to him, but who would bother to look closer? It was captioned, _“The Guide looks for his Sentinel in some pretty interesting places.”_

The third showed him kissing a horse on the nose. That one was accurate, but in the company of the others and the caption that speculated about Blair’s unmarried state, the picture didn’t put him in the best of lights, further supported by the caption, _“The Guide has a rather unusual fondness for animals.”_

Jim was horrified. His article had been a balanced, if entertaining, report of a pleasant evening out in the company of an interesting and eclectic man, but the pictures and captions put a spin on it he hadn’t intended. He’d been furious at first, but by the time he’d seen it, it had been on every newspaper stand in Cascade and available on the wire internationally. His anger had been diffused somewhat by the praise that had been heaped on him by his peers, and the grudging respect (and blatant requests for introductions) from reporters at other print and broadcast media.

“These are great pictures,” Joel commented.

“I arranged it so Megan could follow us.”

“You guys make a helluva team,” Joel said, not for the first time. He began reading aloud again. “At two o’clock this morning, The Guide tied up traffic while he fed a bagful of doughnuts to a horse. When asked why he was doing it, he replied: _‘I just wanted to see how many doughnuts this horse would eat before he’d ask for a cup of coffee.’_ That’s just beautiful!”

“You know, Joel, they weren’t doughnuts he fed to the horse, but a bag of carrots he’d gotten from a green grocer that was closing up late. The horse looked kinda underfed, so he went and bought them and fed them to him. Gave the driver a fistful of cash, too, since he seemed like he really cared for the horse.”

“But he did say that, about the doughnuts, right?” Joel looked worried; a lawsuit wasn’t a good thing in his books.

“Yeah. Only because somebody stuck their nose in his business and asked what he was up to. He didn’t owe the guy an honest account of his business; it would only have embarrassed the driver that he was broke. So Blair was just being funny, I guess.” He trailed off; it wasn’t his job to protect the subject of his story.

“Well, it wasn’t me that cut the explanation fro your article. Blame my boss.” He rolled his eyes upwards, in the direction of the Editor-in-Chief’s executive offices. “What happened after that?” Joel prodded.

“I don’t know. I had to run to get the story out. He gave me his private number though.”

“When’re you going to see him again?”

“See him again? I thought if I got you the Goddamn article, I could I go back to the crime beat. Somebody’s got to have done something criminal in the last couple of days while I’ve been out doing ‘summer stalk’.” He didn’t need to finger-quote his pun, Joel got it. He always did.

“Jim. You know I would if I could, but nobody else can get to him. Now you need to see him again tonight. Get more dirt on the guy. The sales department called just before you dropped by, and both our advertising sales and subscription rates are higher than they’ve been in years!” Joel continued right over Jim’s protests. “I know. I know. And we _are_ a serious newspaper, but we’d better be a serious newspaper with increased ad revenues and subscriptions, or we won’t be any kind of newspaper at all!”

“Okay. Okay. Point taken. If the human interest crap sells papers, then I’ll get you the human interest crap,” Jim agreed reluctantly. “I’ll call Sandburg at noon and set up a meet for tonight.”

“Why wait till noon? Call him right now.” Joel shoved his desk phone toward Jim and leaned forward eagerly prepared to listen in.

“Can’t. I told him I was a sort of errand boy around here. He wouldn’t have talked to me if I’d said I was a reporter. So it only makes sense that I can’t receive calls or call him until my lunch hour.”

Joel nodded and laughed. “You’re a genius, Jim, a genius! You think of everything. Did you give him your right name?”

“No. I told him my name was Jim Elliott and arranged to move into Megan Connor’s spare room in case Simon Banks starts snooping around.”

“Good! Good! Stay there. I’m glad your by-line is ‘J.J. Ellison’, so there’s little chance Sandburg’ll make the connection. They’ll never know where the stories are coming from. Stick close to him, Jim; you can get an exclusive story out of him every day for a month. We’ll drive the other papers crazy. Jim, I could kiss you!” Joel started around his desk with his arms spread and a puckered-up smile on his big round face.

Jim quickly side-stepped the move, laughing. “Oh, no. Joel, I’m not that kind of a boy. Remember, our deal was for a month’s vacation _with pay!”_

Joel stopped and leaned against his desk. “Sure. Jim, I remember. And after today’s article, I’ll have no trouble convincing the higher-ups. Just keep those fun facts comin’.”

**Chapter 12.     All the Ooze That’s Fit to Print**  
 ****

Blair woke late, yawning and stretching. He hadn’t stayed out so late in a long time, although, now that he thought about it, he used to stay out much later when he was a student and still managed to make it to class and get good grades.

After Jim had said he had to go home, Blair had headed for Club Doom; but once there, his interest in partying had dissipated. He’d danced a few, enjoying the feel of his body in motion, but the men who hit on him—and there were several—had all seemed uninteresting after his evening with Jim Elliott.

Blair hummed some generic dance tune as he walked back in the room wearing just a towel slung low on his hips, scrubbing his hair dry with another.

“Morning, Mr. Blair.”

Blair jumped, still not used to having another person in his space all the time. “Morning,” he echoed, glancing around, waiting for his heartbeat to return to normal.

The drapes had been opened and the bed made as if it had never been slept in. Blair wondered if he’d ever get used to that. “Anybody call yet? A guy named Elliott, maybe?”

“No. Are you expecting him to?”

“Kinda. I met this guy last night. He was having a sort of a zone-out. At first, he wouldn’t let me help him. He’s got a lot of pride. Not just after my money. I like that.”

“That’s good. As long as you’re sure he’s what he says he is.”

Rafe’s comment made Blair a little uneasy. He changed the subject, “Is there any coffee, Rafe? I need about a gallon this morning.”

“Of course. I’ll get you some.”

At that moment, Simon Banks stormed into the room, a newspaper in his hand. “Did you see all this stuff in the papers?”

“Morning to you too, Simon.”

“How’d it get in there? What’d you do last night? Who were you talking to?”

He flung the paper on the bed. Blair glanced at it, his face clouding as he checked out the headline, pictures and captions.

Simon carried on, while Blair ignored him and began dressing. “And what’d you do to Henry Brown? I hired him for the simple task of following you around. He quit this morning. Said you locked him up.”

“Henry seemed like a nice guy. I just wanted some privacy. Something I’ve had very little of lately,” he said, stepping into a pair of khaki pants and looking straight at Simon.

“What do you think bodyguards are for?”

Blair pulled on a pair of Doc Martins, tucking the laces inside. He began to fully read the newspaper article Simon had indicated.

“The stuff in the article, the pictures,” Simon demanded, “is it true?”

“‘Yeah, for the most part. _‘The Guide!’_ That’s kind of clever. I wonder who wrote that.”

“You’re lucky that’s all they called you. Somebody called my office today to try and reach you. Said they met you last night at Club Doom. You don’t need _that_ kind of nickname.” Simon stared pointedly at Blair. Blair guessed Simon knew a thing or two about prejudice and was just trying to protect him.

“You know, Simon. I think I’ll go down to _The_ _Times_ and meet this reporter.”

Simon looked horrified. “And give him more ammunition? I don’t think so. And I know; it’s my field.” Blair was about to interrupt when Simon cut in. “I wouldn’t question you if you told me something, uh, anthropological, now would I? Why I bet you know more about my African ancestors than I do.” Blair clamped his mouth shut. After last night’s debacle at the RUAC, his professional pride could use a little buffing up.

“You’re right, Simon. I’ll stay away from _The_ _Times_.” He was about to add that he now had a friend who worked there, but Simon cut in again.

“I’ll take care of this Guide thing. That’s my job. I’ll keep that stuff out of the papers, if you’ll work with me. But I can’t do anything if you go around talking to people. Will you promise to be careful from now on?”

“Yeah, I guess I’ll have to.”

Simon took a cigar from a case in his jacket pocket and popped it in his mouth, unlit. “Thanks. If you feel the house rocking, it’ll be me blasting into Joel Taggert.”

“Who’s Joel—?” Blair began, but Simon left the room as quickly as he’d entered. Blair followed at a more relaxed pace, heading into command central for coffee. He was just starting his second cup and thinking about the fresh fruit on the sideboard when Rafe waved a phone in his direction. “Telephone call, Mr. Blair. The one you’ve been waiting for.”

“Great. I’ll talk to Jim.” Blair took the cordless receiver from Rafe. “He’s the only one I’m going to talk to from now on. I know I can trust Jim. I can feel it.”

 

**Chapter 13.     Paper Heir Pain**  
 ****

For the next two weeks, Jim and Blair spent almost every evening together. They usually met for dinner, eschewing the “fine dining” establishments around town, preferring the ethnic places that served hearty meals at reasonable prices. They took turns choosing the eatery, but each tried to pick a place the other would like. They also traded off paying, despite Blair’s arguments that he could more than afford it. They ended up agreeing to a two-to-one ratio, so Blair paid twice to every one time Jim picked up the tab. Since they took equal turns selecting where to eat, sometimes they chose and paid, and sometimes they chose when the other guy was paying. When it was Blair’s turn to choose, he tried to pick restaurants that catered to the more health conscious customer. But when it was Jim’s turn to pay, Blair picked cheaper places. Jim chose Wonderburger the first couple of times it was his turn, figuring it was in keeping with Jim Elliott’s errand-boy persona. And more importantly, because it was his favourite food. Or had been. He had to admit that fresh bean sprouts were a helluva lot tastier than wilted lettuce, and turkey burgers appealed to his sensitive taste buds more than Grade B hamburger. He drew the line at tofu, though; he agreed that it picked up the subtle flavours of whatever it was cooked with, but he just didn’t like the feel of it on his tongue.

Jim would beg off around midnight, claiming early working hours the next morning. That gave him time to get to the office and write up his article for the next day’s edition. His reports on their activities were interesting and well-balanced, but the final versions that hit the news stands were so edited that they made Blair look like an eccentric fool. He was a bit of a character, Jim admitted, but he was certainly no fool. Jim was furious at his colleagues for putting his new friend in such a bad light.

To be honest with himself, though, Jim couldn’t blame Megan. She could only photograph what was in front of her. Her camera was snatched from her as soon as she entered _The Times_ building each evening and the entire contents uploaded into the editing and layout system, out of her hands, out of her control. Or Jim’s.

Joel, too, was blameless, at this point, although Jim was giving both Joel and Megan the cold shoulder anyway, for their contribution to making Blair look like an idiot. The Editor-in-Chief, Gus Ventriss, seeing the effect the Sandburg articles were having on subscriptions and ad revenues, had yanked control away from Joel and was personally selecting pictures and writing captions that made the activities of the warm and eclectic academic look like the crazed actions of a madman. Jim threatened to stop writing the stories—to quit, even—but then someone else would have taken over who would have messed the situation up even more. So he stayed at it and tried to keep it real. He submitted his stories later and later, dawdling at his desk, drawing out the first draft, in hopes that deadlines would keep Ventriss from editing his articles so much. It didn’t work though, because Ventriss just cut things instead of re-writing them and then they looked even worse. Like the time Jim and Blair had been late for the theatre and eaten Wonderburgers in the private box. Blair had accidentally knocked a few French fries off the balcony. The picture in the paper the next day showed him looking down at a pissed-off couple on the level below. The caption read, _“Guide tosses vegetables at arts patrons.”_

Ventriss had cut the reasonable explanation part in which Jim had faithfully reported that it was his own fault—without giving his identify away, of course—they’d been late. He’d had a bad allergic reaction after being spritzed by an overzealous perfume boy at the local department store they’d stopped into. Jim had nearly collapsed, unable to catch his breath. Quick-thinking Blair had dragged Jim to a decorative fountain and used the water to sluice away what he could. When that only partially solved the problem, he had darted to the drug section and grabbed a bottle of rubbing alcohol, distilled water, and a package of cotton balls that he’d used to remove the last of the clingy cologne from Jim’s skin, the distilled water to cleanse his eyes. The store manager had arrived bearing antihistamines and apologizing profusely. The perfume boy had apologized as well, promising never to spritz another customer without express permission. Megan, hidden among the mannequins, had refrained from snapping any pictures, which Jim appreciated greatly. A freelance paparazzi had captured it all, though, and Ventriss had been only too happy to pay for a picture of Blair ducking Jim’s head in the fountain, captioned: _“Guide tries to drown fellow shopper.”_

Simon Banks, in his role as Blair’s public relations consultant haunted _The Times’_ offices daily. Ventriss left Joel to deal with his old colleague, and things between them were strained. Simon threatened cease and desist orders, slander, and libel lawsuits, but because most of the damaging material was in the pictures, and the pictures were unretouched, he couldn’t actually bring a suit against the paper.

Lee Brackett had been in screaming as well, and had sent a series of lawyer’s letters, but the paper’s legal department assured the editorial staff that Brackett’s case was without teeth. And so the lawyers argued, Banks threatened, and the articles continued. Jim was glad his assignment meant he was working nights and catching up on his sleep during the days; he heard all this stuff from Joel when he checked in by phone each day prior to meeting Blair for dinner.

Jim hated the situation, hated his part in it; despite the honest journalism he practiced, he felt like a liar. Nobody could look good under such scrutiny. Jim was just glad he himself hadn’t been recognizable in any of the shots so far. Simon Banks would have known him instantly and put a stop to Jim’s masquerade; and Jim didn’t want to stop—to stop seeing Blair. He hadn’t felt so good since his senses had gone haywire. Plus, he really liked Blair Sandburg. He was the best thing to happen to Jim in a long, long time.

 

**Chapter 14.     An Embarrassment of Bitches**  


It was Saturday night—nearly three weeks after their first meeting. Jim and Blair had just come from the opening of a new exhibit of Inuit artefacts at the Cascade Museum. Jim had enjoyed himself, although he certainly hadn’t expected to and said as much to Blair.

“That was great, Chief. I especially enjoyed the live throat-singing demo.” He grinned at Blair. They were standing on a street corner a few blocks from the museum. They’d stopped for a moment to decide which coffee shop to hit. As they stood under a streetlight, light glinted and twinkled off Blair’s tiny diamond studs, catching Jim’s attention, and he began to lose himself in the twinkling lights.

“Yeah, they’re just about the only culture that figured out how to throw their voice down their partner’s voicebox so the vibrations— Jim?”

Jim could hear Blair’s voice; it sounded tinny and far away. Like he was down a tunnel, a tunnel that grew longer and darker every second…

 _B-boom. B-boom. B-boom._ Jim followed the sound of the drumming back down the tunnel. There was light to guide him now where there’d never been before. And then he was back to himself, Blair’s face looking up at him questioningly, warm hands massaging Jim’s forearms, deep voice crooning encouragements, “Come back to me now. I know you can hear me. Just follow the sound of my voice, Jim.”

He opened his eyes, unaware he’d closed them, focussing slowly on Blair, all up close and personal.

Jim smiled; it was the fastest and easiest time he’d ever had coming back out of one of those weird fugue states. “Thanks, Chief. I’m okay now. I just get kinda lost sometimes.” He blushed a bit; it was embarrassing to have to deal with these fits.

“It’s okay, Jim. You just had to listen to the sound of my voice to get grounded and find your way back.”

Jim didn’t tell him that is wasn’t so much Blair’s voice, but rather his heartbeat that he’d followed back, the drumming like a beacon in the scary blackness of his mind.

“You’ve tomorrow off, right? Let’s do some work on these zone-outs. You need to be able to anticipate them. Deal with them when I’m not around. Get you some control back.”

Control. That was Jim’s favourite concept, and he jumped at the chance. “Absolutely, Chief. I am good with that.”

Blair still hung on to Jim by both arms. He took a step forward, pretty much walking into Jim’s arms. “You know, Jim,” he said huskily, “we could get a much earlier start on the control thing if you stayed the night at my place. I’ve plenty of room for you.” The words were neutral, but the tone was anything but bland. Blair’s smile was full of sex and promises, and for a moment, Jim leaned in, brushing his lips over Blair’s. The tiniest of clicks cut into his sexual haze, and he remembered the cameras.

He jumped back immediately, pushing Blair away at the same time. “Uh, thanks for the assistance, Chief. I think I’m okay now. The, uh, dizzy spell has passed!” he proclaimed loudly, trying to cover his momentary lapse, hoping any reporters or photographers that had followed them from the Museum would buy his “dizziness” ruse.

Sandburg looked hurt and confused. Jim glanced around, groaning aloud as his reconnoitring showed him a paparazzi on the church steps across the street, zoom lens pointed at them like a weapon.

At the groan, Blair switched from hurt to concerned. “Are you okay?”

“Fine, Chief,” Jim assured. It wasn’t Blair; he’d wanted to believe the dizzy spell bullshit, but it was just like the guy to put someone else’s well-being before his own hurt feelings. “We’ll do the pyjama party some other time.” He tugged on Blair’s ponytail playfully, hoping to convey promise as well as reassurance. He really did want to be with Blair, but not under the false pretences he’d built up; although if their relationship survived that revelation, it would truly be a miracle. They walked along in silence for a while.

Eventually the reporter in Jim got the better of him, and he fell into interview style out of habit. “Got any news to report, Chief?” At Blair’s curious glance, Jim caught himself and quickly rephrased the question. “I mean has anything exciting happened lately?”

“Sure. I met you.”

Jim chuckled. “You know what I mean. What’s happening with the theatre? You still Chairman?”

“Oh, that.” At first, Blair sounded disinterested, but quickly warmed to his subject. By now Jim knew that Blair threw himself into everything he did, the embodiment of the old saw: a job worth doing is worth doing well. He was especially dedicated when it benefited the arts or any other noble endeavour. “First thing I did was change my title to ‘Chair’. He rolled his eyes.

Jim fisted the air in fun. “Way to be non-gender-specific, there.”

“Yeah. Go, me. I’m so PC, I titled myself after a piece of furniture. I should at least have picked something more imposing like ‘desk’.” You know, so the ‘From the desk of’ memos would read ‘From the desk of The Desk’.” He shrugged. “Anyway, we had another meeting. I told them I’d go on being Chair and lending my influence—apparently I have influence, now, you know.” Both men laughed at that.

“You have money now, Chief. Where money leads, people follow.”

“Especially the media.” Blair laughed.

Jim looked around guiltily, catching site of Megan’s rubber-soled flats peeking out from under a bush down the block. He recognized a guy reading a paper at the bus stop as his counterpart from the _Cascade Tribune,_ the city’s other major daily.

“So Simon got my accountant to go over their books. And, how ‘bout that? I have an accountant now, too. He made some recommendations, and they lowered their prices and cut down expenses. We’ve got a camera crew lined up to film the mounting of the next production and distribute it as a documentary for people who want a ‘behind the scenes’ kind of look at how a play’s produced.”

“That your idea?”

Blair pushed a strand of hair off his face. “I just figured that the popularity of all the ‘making of’s’ and out-takes that are added to DVDs are the results of some pretty sophisticated research. So I thought we’d piggyback on those findings and see if this would sell. It’ll also be handy for teachers and others trying to put on small-time productions. I could have used an instructional video like that when we were doing _Rent!_ back at Clayton Falls Community Theatre.” He looked up at Jim. “It’ll be free to schools and libraries, of course. I’m paying for that personally. I want to do some good with my money.” Blair stared off into space. Jim could just imagine what Blair intended to do with his inheritance. For some people, the hard part would be giving any of it away, for Blair, it would be to figure out how best to deploy his philanthropic dollar.

“And what did the rest of the Theatre Board say?” Jim asked, calling his companion back to the present.

“Oh. They said I was crazy. Said I wanted to run it like a Wonderburger.”

“And you said?”

“‘You say that like it’s a bad thing,’ ” Blair quoted himself. Jim laughed. “I had paper hats printed up for each board member, reading ‘Puttin’ the b _iz_ back in _show biz_ ’.”

“Were they pissed?”

“Nah. They’re all entrepreneurs and corporate executives. They caught the fever, and now they’re making it the tag line of the season. By next month, the gift shop will be selling hats, stationary, T-shirts, and things imprinted with that slogan.”

“I thought you were big on charities and supporting the arts. What’s with the profit motive?”

“That’s just the thing, Jim. There’s a finite amount of money available to support good causes. Even with my deep pockets. You have to choose them carefully. I know the theatre is important, but I’d rather see my donation dollars going to find a cure for cancer or providing hot breakfasts for under-privileged children—they learn better on a full stomach—than to a cause that could be self-supporting. In fact, my accountant figures the theatre will make enough money to support some after-school drama programs in underprivileged neighbourhoods.”

“So everybody wins.”

“If I have anything to do with it, yeah. I’ll tell you, though, being rich is a full-time job. I might just have to hire an assistant.” He winked at Jim, who turned away uncomfortably. For a moment there he’d gotten caught up in his admiration of Blair Sandburg and his noble intentions, and had forgotten he was really Jim Ellison, sleazy, lying, son-of-a-bitch reporter.

“Yeah, well,” Jim said, feeling pissed at himself. “I’m sure there are some much more deserving people out there than me. I’m just a good-for-nothing—”

Jim’s self-deprecation and Blair’s protests to the contrary fell silent as two women walked down the sidewalk toward them, chatting. They were dressed for an evening out and might already have had a drink or two. _“Oooh,_ look,” one cried, grabbing her friend’s arm and pointing at a newspaper box. “There’s another picture of that hunk Blair!”

Jim was surprised. He’d been so focussed on the poor slant the papers were putting on his friend that it’d never occurred to him that Sandburg’s good looks might catch an eye or two. Besides his own, of course. There was no debating Blair’s good looks, that was for sure.

“Blair, who?” the second girl asked. “Oh, _The Guide!_ What a weirdo. If I saw him coming, I’d run the other way, screaming.”

Jim looked at Blair, who’d stepped into the shadows of a nearby building. Jim wanted to grab him and get him out of earshot—normal earshot, that is. Jim would have to listen to their distressing comments for blocks; it seemed suitable penance for his own part in the fiasco. He couldn’t get to Sandburg, though, without alerting the girls to his presence, and he didn’t want this to be any more of a scene than it already was.

The first girl, the one who’d thought Sandburg “a hunk” now said, “I’ll take a little ‘weird’ with my money, thank you. Do you have any idea what I could buy with $20 million?”

“Don’t worry. Somebody’s probably taking him for plenty. Already stringing him along with some line or another.”

Jim did move then, not toward Blair, but toward the girls. “Can I get you ladies a ride home? It’s not safe for women to be out alone after dark.” He could easily see, despite the darkness, that they weren’t really that young, and they were probably able to fend for themselves. He loomed at them menacingly, though, putting all his Army Ranger aggressiveness into his stance. He reached into his pocket, and one of the girls jumped behind the other. “I’ve got mace!” she declared, voice only slightly trembling.

“I’ve got a gun,” squeaked the other, peering over the questionable protection of her friend’s shoulder. Neither mace nor firearm made an appearance.

“And I’ve got a cell phone, ladies. May I call you a cab?” Jim held up the small device Blair had recently gifted him with.

At that moment, a cab pulled into view, and the girls dashed out in the roadway to hail it, pouring themselves quickly into the backseat.

Blair stepped out of the shadows. “My hero,” he said sourly. “You enjoyed that.”

“Yes. Yes, I did. Not the dissing-the-Guide part, but the sending-them-packing part? Yes. I confess. I didn’t want to hear any more. So sue me.”

It was still early, but the ambience was spoiled for the evening. Blair seemed mildly pissed, and Jim felt both pissed and guilty. He feigned exhaustion—what was one more lie?—and begged an early night. Sandburg didn’t protest, and they headed in different directions without the usual dawdling and promises to call the next day. Jim walked home even though it took over an hour.

 

**Chapter 15.     Fiscally Fit**  
 ****

Lee Brackett paced the floor in his big office while his partners sat around a meeting table, looking worried.

“I don’t want to be critical, Lee, but—” Oliver started. Lee’s younger brothers always let Oliver do the talking; that way he got the brunt of Lee’s temper.

And Lee did exactly that now, cutting rudely in before Oliver could complete his sentence. “Yes, I know. Time is passing, and we haven’t got the Power of Attorney yet!” He stared down each of his partners, glaring at the other man until he looked away.

There was an uncomfortable silence before Oliver spoke again. “Yes, but you said—”

Brackett interrupted again, this time coming close to lean over his seated cousin. “I don’t care what I said. I can’t drug him and force him to sign, can I? I’ve already stalled giving him his accounts to look at. Eventually, I’m going to have to give them to him.”

There was some discussion about the viability of this action before they abandoned it as too illegal even for their questionable ethics—it wasn’t about right or wrong, of course, but rather about their chances of getting away with it.

One of the Brackett brothers finally spoke. “It’s ridiculous for us to have to worry about a boy like that.” He gestured at a pile of newspapers on the table. “Look at these articles! ‘The Guide’! Why, he’s carrying on like an idiot.”

There was general consensus and accusing glances in Lee’s direction. The buzzing of the intercom broke up the hubbub. Brackett crossed to his desk and hit the button. _“What?”_

“Mr. Lipshitz and his wife are still waiting.” Rhonda’s voice sounded more timid than usual.

“So? Let ‘em wait! I’m busy.”

“You did make an appointment with them. It seems kind of rude—” Brackett pressed the disconnect button with more force than necessary.

“Those people have been in every day this week,” Oliver commented.

“Who are they?” asked one of the brothers. “Isn’t that the same last name as—”

“Yeah. It’s another nephew. Some brother’s kid. They say if it hadn’t been for Sandburg, they’d have gotten all the money.”

“Does their claim hold any water, Lee?”

“Course not. I drew up the will myself. It’s air-tight. David Lipshitz loved Sandburg, hated this nephew. Larry, I think his name is. Larry is a complete wimp, and his wife’s a money-grubbing, social-climbing nag. Lipshitz knew if she got her claws on the money, she’d use it all on herself. He wanted the money to be distributed to good causes. He was going to leave it all to United Way. At least I talked him out of that.” There was nervous laughter around the table. “So he figured his other nephew, Sandburg, would do some good with it. The whole family’s nuts.” He whirled a finger around near his ear. His brothers quickly copied this childish gesture of insanity.

“Uh, Lee?” Oliver began. The others ceased their gesticulation and looked at him with impatience. The meeting had that wrapping-up feeling, and they hardly wanted to start anything new. It was nearly lunch, after all. They had a noon reservation at their club and a 1:30 tee-off time. “Does it have any merit?”

“Does what have any merit? Oh, wait.” A light went on. “Yeah. Hey. A competency hearing. We might be able to get control of his money if we can convince the courts he’s not capable of looking after himself. It would be the right thing to do, then if we were to look after all that money _for_ him...”

“But we need someone to bring the case forward. We can’t do it ourselves,” a younger Brackett said.

“We can bring a case forward on behalf of these guys in our lobby,” Oliver said. “It’s what they want, anyway.”

“Hang on, now. We don’t want them to win the case, or we’ll be right back where we started, trying to get the heirs to give us control,” one of the Brackett brothers said.

“We’ll be worse off.” Lee stroked his chin while he thought aloud. “I remember David telling me Lipshitz’s wife is pretty sharp. They could prove useful, though, in bringing a case forward. What we need is to get the court to recognize that Sandburg needs ‘legal’ supervision. Then we’re in an even better position than we were with the old guy who left everything up to us, but could have decided to stick his nose in his business at any point. Yes, this is good. This is exactly what we needed. Glad I thought of it.” He crossed to the intercom. “Rhonda. Tell the Lipshitzs I’m ready for them now.” He disconnected the intercom and shooed his partners out the rear door that led directly from his office into the main boardroom. They didn’t bother to apologize to the junior partner who was meeting clients there, as they crossed the boardroom and exited into the hallway.

Brackett crossed to his main office door and swung it open just as Rhonda was about to knock. He reached past his secretary to shake hands with the red-haired woman leading the way and drew her into his office.

“Cassie Lipshitz?” Brackett said, making warm and sincere eye-contact.

“It’s Cassie Wells. I kept my name.”

“Well, who could blame you?” Brackett laughed, stepping back to let Larry Lipshitz enter. “No offence, there.” He shook Larry’s hand, but it was obvious Cassie pulled the strings.

“We’ve been trying to—” she began, once she was seated at the recently vacated meeting table.

Brackett smoothly cut in. “I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting. I don’t know what my secretary could have been thinking to keep you waiting this long. Did she at least get you coffee?”

“I wouldn’t mind a Perrier, Lee.” Cassie settled back, looking very much at home. “Litigation is such thirsty work.”

 

**Chapter 16.     Scents and Sensibility**  
 ****

“Pass the wasabi, please.”

“Are you sure, Jim? It’s pretty intense stuff for a guy with sensitivities, you know.”

“That’s just the thing. When I’m around you, Blair, I feel a lot better. Well, a little, anyway.” He scraped a miniscule amount of the lumpy green horseradish onto his sushi dish with one splintery chopstick.

“We can work on that if you like. Maybe teach you some control. I have some reference material I left back in Clayton Falls. I’ll see if I can get one of my students to pack it up for me and send it along.” He looked wistful. “Former student, I mean.”

“You won’t be going back to teaching once everything’s settled?” Jim was surprised. Blair had told him he loved teaching and had planned to go back.

“I’m not sure anyone will let me near a classroom again after Monday’s paper.”

Jim had written about Blair’s plan to use profits from the theatre company to provide after-school drama programs for inner-city children. They’d dug out a picture of Blair with his arm around a crying child in the park from a completely different day when he’d helped a lost little boy find his mother again. The caption had read, _“Guide takes an unusual interest in young boys.”_

Jim had been horrified by the caption and blasted Ventriss for it. The Editor-in-Chief had promised not to go down that road again, but he had balked at publishing a retraction. After all, the statement was true, wasn’t it? The lawyer who’d slipped quietly into the room while Jim was yelling nodded. Blair had been unusually quiet Monday evening, but he hadn’t mentioned it at the time. Ventriss had kept his word, and the papers had gone back to making Blair a fool, but not any sort of pervert or criminal. Jim never brought it up, feeling that he’d actually done some good for Blair for once in steering Ventriss away from that harmful spin.

Now he said, “You’re worried about those articles the papers are writing about you, aren’t you?”

“I’m not worried any more. I suppose they’ll go on writing them ‘til they get tired. You don’t believe all that stuff, do you?”

A guilty look spread over Jim’s face. “Oh, no. They just do that stuff with the pictures and the captions to sell more papers, you know. The articles are, uh, more balanced.”

“Yeah, I guess so. I just wonder if anybody actually reads the articles or if they just look at those dumb pictures. I’m so glad that you’ve been left out of this mess. You’re not recognizable in any of the shots, and your name hasn’t been connected with me. I…” He looked at Jim. “I would understand if you stopped, you know, hanging out with me because of all this shit.”

“Oh, God. No, Blair. I lo—. I love the time we spend together. This may surprise you…” Jim glanced around, then laid has hand on Blair’s, whispering conspiratorially, “but I don’t actually have a lot of friends.”

Blair guffawed at the unexpected confession, which had been Jim’s intent. He balled up his napkin and tossed it at Jim’s head. Jim ducked, and it hit the guy at the next table. They apologized and Blair offered to pick up the guy’s tab. Recognizing Blair, they settled for an autograph—which surprised the hell out of both Jim and Blair—and they went back to their sushi.

But despite his claims to the contrary, the articles really seemed to be bothering Blair, and he returned to the subject, gesturing with his chopsticks to emphasize his point. “What puzzles me was why people seem to get so much pleasure out of hurting each other. Why don’t they try and like each other once in a while?”

There was an awkward pause as Jim tried to remove a drop of soy sauce from his shirt. Finally, without looking up, he said, “I like you.”

Blair reached across the table and covered Jim’s left hand with his own. “I like you too, Jim. And maybe that’s enough.”

n § n § n

After dinner, Jim and Blair decided to walk around town a bit, maybe think about seeing a movie or something.

Jim’s graveyard-shift schedule was playing havoc with his sleep, and he was tired tonight. He spotted a park bench and plopped himself down.

“Thought we were going to walk, Elliott,” Blair teased, standing between Jim’s outspread legs, hands on hips in mock remonstration.

“We walked here, didn’t we?” Jim sat up straighter and gestured to the bench beside him. “Take a load off, Sandburg. Some of us work for a living, you know.”

“Sorry, man. Are you bushed? We can call it a night if you want.” He seated himself beside Jim, looking around the small park, maybe for the shortest route out again.

“Hey, Chief. I’m fine. Just a little tired is all.” He laid a hand on Blair’s thigh and squeezed once in reassurance. “Let’s just sit a moment, ‘kay?”

Blair seemed encouraged. “Yeah, sure. At least there aren’t any photographers around.”

Jim didn’t argue even though he could easily hear Megan sneaking into the bushes behind them. Although he knew she’d never take a shot of anything that would challenge the “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy Jim had adopted, he was still uneasy with displays of affection in public. He wanted their first time—their first real kiss, even—to be special, and not something showcased for all of Cascade’s entertainment.

Under guise of stretching, Jim moved away a bit, instantly missing the warmth of Blair’s body down his right side. “You know, you said something that first night I’ve been thinking about.”

“I said a whole lot of things that first night. Could you maybe narrow it down a little?”

“When we were sitting with those assholologists—” Blair gave a short bark of laughter at Jim’s insult of Rainier’s intelligentsia. “You said something about people with enhanced senses.” Jim picked at a loose thread on his sleeve. He was very uncomfortable talking about any of this.

“Oh, that…”

“What did you mean by that?”

“Nothing.”

“It didn’t seem like nothing at the time, Chief. Old Stod-fart said you were going write a thesis on it. On, um, Sentinels, was it?” Jim remembered it clearly; he’d quoted both Blair and Stoddard in what would be the first of the regrettable articles, but he figured Jim-the-errand-boy would hesitate over the technical term. He waited for Blair to respond. There was a long pause and finally Jim added. “We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

Blair rubbed his hands up and down his thighs, as if his palms were sweaty. “Oh, Jim. You don’t know what you’re asking. I could talk about Sentinels for days, years even. I practically did. It’s you I’m not sure is ready to talk about them.” Blair grabbed Jim’s chin and turned his head so they were eye to eye, only inches apart. “About being one.”

Jim pulled back out of Blair’s grasp. He stood quickly and walked a few paces away. “How did you…? How long have you…?”

“Your little psychic act that first night, Jim. You could see, hear, smell stuff the rest of us couldn’t. Plus don’t forget, if you hadn’t had that zone-out, we never would have met.”

Jim knew he’d actually had a crappy plan of asking Blair directions when he’d keeled over, but he wasn’t thinking straight at the moment. He’d needed answers for ages, and now they sat before him, staring at him with those incredible blue eyes. He didn’t seem to know where to begin. Blair just sat there, elbows resting on knees and hair falling like a curtain around his face.

“I can wait Jim. Whenever you’re ready, you just let me know.” He sat back, spreading his arms wide along the back of the park bench. “I can help you. I know I can.”

Jim had never seen Blair look so confident, so in control. He had come to admire many things about Blair, but he’d never seen him in his true element, talking about his field of expertise. His exclusive area of expertise, Jim figured, both from Stoddard’s jealous jibes, and from the total futility he’d had in his own efforts to uncover the root of his enhanced senses. He was a professional journalist with a nose for news and an entire research department at his disposal, and they’d turned up nothing about Sentinels. Yet once Jim had been pointed in the right direction by Blair’s comments that first night, he’d been able to find a few references that filled him with both terror and relief. At last he knew what it was, but since it was an integral part of his being, and not any sort of condition, he was dismayed to learn that there was no cure. He was like this for life!

Blair waited patiently while Jim paced, the thoughts roiling around in his brain matching the roiling in his gut. Finally, he turned to Blair. “I had them as a kid, the senses, but my dad made me feel like they were bad, like I was different; so I learned to hide them. I guess I turned them off until… I dunno. It’s kinda hazy. I think I had them in Peru—I told you about my chopper crash there, right? But then I didn’t have them again until I was out on a case a couple of years back. They went away before. I was hoping they’d just sort of go away again.” He grimaced at Blair, a bit ashamed of his behaviour. “I had a lot of medical tests, but the closest the doctors came was post-traumatic stress disorder. I wasn’t buying, though. It just didn’t feel right.” He paused. “The senses, they feel right, really. And sometimes they can be helpful. When I’m trying to get a story…” Blair’s eyes narrowed. “I mean, when one of the journalists is trying to get a story and asking me to help, sometimes I can see further or hear something… Once there was a computer glitch, and an entire article was lost. The document had been erased by accident and the printer had run out of toner. I was able to read and dictate the entire article back to one of the secretaries when everyone else saw just white paper. And I stopped a fire in the pressroom one time. I smelled smoke long before anyone else did.” Jim didn’t have to make stuff up, these things had really happened, although he hadn’t really thought about his senses being helpful until now.

“We’ll work together, Jim. We’ll figure out what works and what doesn’t and get you back some control.”

“You’d do that for me?”

“It’s my life’s work. I got an indefinite extension from Rainier when I left. It was something I managed to get out of Eli when he realized I wasn’t afraid to go to the University’s Board about his behaviour. I can pick up where I left off and finally get my Ph.D. Maybe even publish a book about it.”

“Oh, so this is about you, is it?” With his emotions on edge, Jim’s temper spun quickly out of control. “You’ll get what you want. Have you only been palling around with me to get a Sentinel for your thesis? I should have known. What does a rich prick like you need with a fucked-up asshole like me?” He meant to storm off, but he just sort of stood there, waiting for Blair to respond.

“Okay. We’ll forget the Sentinel and just work on Jim. No thesis. No book. Just you.” Blair hadn’t hesitated a second in supplying that answer. “I’d rather have you than a Ph.D. It’s about friendship” He looked at Jim without guile; this was Blair Sandburg at his truest.

Jim felt bad for his outburst and said so. “I’m sorry, Sandburg. Blair. It’s this city. The job. Things get to me sometimes.”

“We could go back to Clayton Falls. I may not be a Sentinel, but I sure miss the peace and quiet.” Sirens sounded in the distance as if to emphasize Blair’s point.

“I’m from a small town too, you know.”

“Really?”

“Well, it’s been absorbed as a suburb now, but when I was a kid, it had it’s own Mayor and just one high school. It was probably as small as Clayton Falls.”

“Wow. That’s pretty nifty.”

“It was a beautiful little town, too. A row of poplar trees right along Main Street. Always smelled as if it’d just rained.” Jim was lost in memories. “The high school’s been torn down. It’s a strip mall now.” He sighed, sitting back down on the bench beside Blair. “Wal-Mart, Home Depot, Best Buy. I couldn’t wait to join the army and get out of there. Get away from my father. He was a helluva bastard, always playing my brother and me against each other. He thought competition would make us strong, successful. Like him.”

“I never knew my father. Sometimes when I hear other people’s stories, I’m kinda glad I didn’t.” He clasped Jim’s hand, and the two of them sat there, staring at nothing, lost in thought.

The siren shrieked again, coming closer. Jim clapped his hand over his ears as more sirens joined in the cacophony. Blair placed his hands over Jim’s and gently massaged. He might have been saying something, but Jim couldn’t hear anything but the screaming sirens. He focused on Blair’s touch, warm on the back of his hands, moving rhythmically. Gradually, gradually, he was able to get control again. He carefully moved his hands a little away from his ears, moving with that fragile tenseness of someone expecting great pain. He was surprised to find he was okay—no devastating migraine, no nausea or chills. “I’m okay, Blair.” There was wonder in his voice. He’d been through this so many times before, and there’d always been residual pain, illness. “I’m okay,” he repeated.

Blair laid a hand on Jim’s shoulder. “There seems to be a fire on the far side of the park. Do you want to get out of here, Jim?”

“No. I don’t.” Jim had never been able to cover certain types of scenes before; if they were noisy or had noxious odours, he’d had to leave the reporting to someone else. It made him feel weak and useless, but now he felt like his old self again. He had plenty of experience with fire rescue. He could be useful again, maybe make a difference in somebody’s life other than making them look the fool. “Let’s go see if we can help. Ever been to a fire before?”

Blair snapped a sharp salute. “Captain Sandburg, fire volunteer, Clayton Falls.”

“Let’s go, Chief.”

“Not the chief, just a volunteer,” Blair corrected, and they set off for the fire at a brisk trot.

 

**Chapter 17.     Guilting the Lily**  
 ****

Back in his office, a little grimy and a little sweaty, Jim watched the curser pulse on his almost-blank computer screen.

“What’s up, Jim?” Megan asked softly, slipping into the room.

“Nothing.” He’d meant to snap at her for getting into his business, but he lacked the heart for it, and it came out flat.

“What’s up, Jim?” she repeated. “Something’s eating you.”

Megan came up behind him and peered over his shoulder. _“Guide Assists Cascade Fire Department”_ read the headline. The text went on to state, _“Last night, Blair Sandburg, aka ‘The Guide,’ proved invaluable to the Cascade FD. Recognizing and interpreting gang symbols spray-painted on the burning wall, Sandburg was able to identify the blazing building as a crystal meth lab. The Fire Chief ordered his crew back from the scene just as the entire building exploded into a hellish inferno. Who knows how many lives were saved by…”_

You haven’t gotten very far, have you? That’s where you were an hour ago. Come on, let’s knock off and go down to Joe’s bar. The gang’s waiting for us.”

“I can’t write it, Megan! Blair was a hero tonight, saved a lot of lives, but Ventriss is going to take it and twist it around so Blair looks like an idiot again. Or worse. I shouldn’t care. I should be professionally distant. But I can’t. I don’t know what the hell’s wrong with me!”

“Uh-huh. I think I can tell you.” But before she could, Jim’s cell phone rang, playing an electronic version of the Cascade Jaguars’ theme song. Jim ignored it, but it continued its tinny serenade, stopping finally when it clicked over to the answering system. Almost immediately, it began to play again. Whoever was calling really wanted to speak to Jim.

Jim grabbed the phone. “Ellison.”

“What?” Blair’s voice was confused.

“Elliott, here. Who’s calling so Goddamn late?” Jim covered quickly, trying to sound both confused and grumpy, as if he’d been wakened from deep sleep. He covered the phone and glared at Megan. She took her cue and disappeared.

“Oh. Uh, I couldn’t sleep. Kinda wanted to talk to you. Is that okay?”

Jim could hear the nervousness in Blair’s voice. “No, Yes. It’s okay. Uh, I couldn’t sleep either,” he lied, glad Blair wasn’t a Sentinel so he couldn’t hear all the office noises in the background.

“I wanted to thank you again for hanging out with me. I don’t know what I’d do without you. Tonight at the fire, you were great, directing all those people, forcing the Fire Chief to listen to me. You balance out all the jerks and sons-of-bitches I’ve met since I’ve been back in Cascade.”

“Well, uh. Thanks.” Jim flushed, not really comfortable with touchy-feely kinds of conversations. “But it’s not like it’s any big deal. I like hanging out with you, too.”

“You know what I’ve been doing since I got home? Been working on some tests for your senses. I was just, um, thinking about you.

Jim was touched. “We could work on them some time. Maybe the weekend?”

“I hope to be ready next time I see you. Maybe tomorrow night after you get off work?”

Jim picked up a glass paperweight and spun it on his fingertips, a goofy smile on his handsome face. “I’d like that, Chief. I’ll see if I can get off a bit early.”

“Night, Jim.”

“Night.”

He snapped the tiny phone closed and sat back, staring at the computer without really seeing it at all.

Megan, who had been hovering just outside the office, took that as her cue to re-enter.

Jim looked at her, guilt tearing him up inside. “That guy’s either the dumbest, the stupidest, the most imbecilic idiot in the world, or he’s the greatest thing alive. I can’t figure him out.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And here’s the great Jim Ellison, crucifying him. I’m just crucifying him.” Jim dropped his face in his hands with a groan.

“People have been crucified before. Good people, even.” If there was a touch of irony in her voice, Jim ignored it.

“Why? Why do we have to do it?”

“You wanted to be a successful journalist, didn’t you?”

“Yeah? So what?”

“Like I have all the answers.” Megan shrugged. “Call the psychic hotline or something.”

“Here’s a guy so fresh and original, that to us jaded city-types, he looks like a freak. You know what he told me tonight? He said he wants to set up a foundation and give away all of the money he inherited. All of it! Then he’ll go back to teaching high school science in Clayton fucking Falls.” Jim barked out a harsh laugh. “Imagine.”

“The guy’s balmy. I know what I’d do with $20 million dollars, and it sure wouldn’t be to give it away.”

“What would you do, Megan? With $20 million, I mean.”

“Well, I’d probably go home to Australia. Maybe buy a sheep station for my dad. He always wanted one. And help out with the Aboriginal issues there. Set up a walk-about program so they don’t lose their unique culture. And endow a chair at my Uni. Hell, endow a wing, maybe.” She looked up at Jim, shock on her face. “Oh, God. I would. I’d give it away. Not all of it, surely, but a lot of it. I guess I’m just some tree-hugging, do-gooder liberal myself.” She grinned, apparently not all that displeased with her new insights. “How ‘bout you, Jim. What would you do with 20-million bucks?”

Jim stared into space, wanting to give an honest answer as Megan had. Wanting to know what he’d do. “I think…” he began. “I think, I’d give it to Blair Sandburg. He’d know what to do with it. He’s… trustworthy.” Jim looked into Megan’s eyes, feeling the same surprise as she had a moment before. She smiled back. “I’ve had trust issues all my life.” Megan rolled her eyes but with a kind smile of encouragement. “I think I can honestly say that Blair Sandburg is the right man to trust with $20 million.”

 

**Chapter 18.     Blair Naked**  
 ****

Blair lay in his king-size bed, propped up against the elegant ormolu headboard. He’d been sitting there for a good ten minutes, cradling the telephone receiver in his arms, stroking it lightly. He finally noticed and chuckled to himself, commenting “you’ve got it bad, Sandburg” to the bedpost. He set the phone back in its cradle to re-charge and grabbed his book. It was the same one he’d received on his last day in Clayton Falls, The Sentinels of Paraguay by Sir Richard Burton. He was glad he wasn’t still stroking the phone when Rafe poked his head in the open bedroom door.

“Beg pardon, Mr. Blair.”

“Yes?”

“Your caterer called.”

“Oh, yeah. Frankie. How’s he doing?”

“François is fine,” Rafe corrected. “He said to tell you everything is all set for the reception.”

“François, right, from the French part of Long Island.” Blair rolled his eyes. “It’s not my reception. That Douglas guy from the Theatre Board thought it would be a good idea. Hey, why don’t you put on a black wig and pretend to be me? You’re so much classier than I am.” He grinned at Rafe.

“Yes, sir. Is that an order, sir?”

“Uh, oh. You only call me ‘sir’ when I’m in the doghouse. Okay. Okay. I’ll go to my own party. But I won’t enjoy it.”

“Yes, Mr. Blair. Goodnight. Do you wish the door closed?”

“Nah, just leave it.” He scratched the inch of hairy stomach that peeped out of his pyjamas. “Going out, Rafe?”

“Will you be needing me again this evening, sir?”

“Uh, oh. Again with the ‘sir’. God, that’s effective. Kind of like a safe word. I need some sort of code like that in my next relationship; save a lot of grief if we just communicate properly. I’m going to talk to Jim about it, see if he likes the idea.” Blair contemplated a relationship with Jim Elliott a moment, before returning to Rafe’s question. “Nah, I got along 30-odd years—and believe me there were some pretty odd years there—without you, so I guess I can handle one more night. Have a good one, buddy.”

“Very good, Mr. Blair.” Rafe smiled and left, not closing the door behind him.

Bored and restless, Blair climbed out of bed and shut the door after all. He might not have an actual relationship with the gorgeous and sexy Jim Elliott, but he could have a fantasy one. He dropped his pyjama bottoms and climbed back into bed.

 

**Chapter 19.     Mean with Envy**  
 ****

Blair stood on his porch, decked out in a custom-made tuxedo and feeling very suave. A young man trotted up the front walk toward him, smiling in greeting. He wore black dress pants, a collarless white shirt, and black satin vest embroidered in gold. He was young, late teens, early twenties maybe. Too young to be a patron of the arts, Blair figured him for a member of the cast that they’d trucked out for the benefit of the rich sponsors.

“Good evening, Mr. Sandburg.” The young man smiled.

“Welcome. Welcome.” Blair responded, shaking his hand. “That’s what I should have worn, one of those mandarin style shirts, then I wouldn’t have had to worry about this frickin’ bow tie!” He tugged at his collar, a mock-grimace on his face. “Care for a drink?”

“Can’t, sir. I’m on duty.”

“Duty? You a cop?” Blair knew they’d have security, but this guy was so young.

“Actually, I’m part of your staff. Usually, I’m the assistant gardener, but I’m getting paid extra tonight to do the valet parking with my brother.” He pointed to an identically attired man taking the keys from an older man in a tux and a woman decked out in furs, the warm evening notwithstanding.

 _Off to a great start there, Sandburg_ , Blair chastized himself. He didn’t think he’d ever get used to the whole idea of him having staff. “I suck at being rich,” he said to the gardener-cum-valet, turning away without waiting for reaction.

Then Simon Banks appeared, looking very dashing in his own tuxedo, and Blair felt his spirits pick up a bit. Simon stood by Blair’s side as guest after guest arrived, cueing Blair on names and backgrounds as needed. Blair felt a little better about having staff, although he’d come to think of Simon as more of a friend and mentor. He tried to enjoy himself, despite what he’d told Rafe the previous evening.

He wasn’t doing so well at the enjoying-himself part later, though. Once the guests had all arrived, he had no set role, no reason to walk up to anyone and insinuate himself into their conversation. He wished Jim was there, or better yet, wished he and Jim were out at one of their favourite restaurants or sitting on “their bench” in “their park”. Nobody paid any attention to him. Why would they, now that he’d made the theatre self-sufficient? Nobody needed to kiss his philanthropic ass anymore. He walked through his house like a ghost, eavesdropping on snippets of conversation, sorry that he did. He might not have been talked to, but he certainly was being talked about.

“Oh, hello darling. So good of you to come. Sweet of you to ask me. Where is he? I’m just dying to see _The Guide,”_ one woman exclaimed as Blair passed her knot of over-perfumed guests. He coughed, glad Jim wasn’t there after all. The colognes and perfume were overwhelming, and the room was already blue with cigarette and cigar smoke, despite the tasteful brass “no smoking” signs. Guess these people were just really used to doing whatever they pleased.

Blair sauntered past a whispering couple, _“Shh!_ He could hear you,” the man said.

“Even if he heard you, he wouldn’t understand. I hear he’s practically retarded,” the woman responded.

“I hear he still believes in Santa Claus.”

“Will he _be_ Santa Claus? That’s what I want to know.” She laughed and flicked ashes on the carpet. Perhaps that was her response to the lack of ashtrays. “I’ve been very, very naughty this year.” She gave a low and throaty laugh, “and I can be very, very good.”

Blair hurried out of earshot, stopping near another man who was holding forth to two elegantly dressed women. “You both look ravishing. Have you got sights set on The Guide”?”

“Well, I certainly have,” purred one woman, yanking her dress front just a wee bit lower. “I could use a little boost to the old bank account right about now. Where is he? Is he as ugly as old man Lipshitz was? God, I swear I had to really fake it for that one.”

They all laughed. The second woman patted her hair, nodding in agreement, “With $20 million, he doesn’t have to have looks! But the first thing I’d do is sneak up on him in the night while he was asleep, a sharp knife in my hand…”

The others leaned in close, anxious to hear what she was proposing.

“…and slice off that disgusting mop of his. Who knows, might be something halfway decent under all that hair.”

They seemed to find this hilarious. Blair sighed and retreated further into the shadows. He touched his hair, pulled tightly back in a ponytail, which he thought looked rather nice. He recalled Jim toying with it and cheered up a bit.

**Chapter 20.     Some Enchanted Leaving**  
 ****

Back when Jim had first met Blair, he’d arranged with Megan to move into the extra room in her apartment. It had been part of the errand-boy persona he’d created; a guy who’d been out of work a long time and rung up large medical bills probably couldn’t afford that funky loft on Prospect Avenue. Also, should Simon Banks have done any background research on _Times_ employee James Elliott, Jim wanted to have an address that was in no way connected with J.J. Ellison.

Megan had lugged most of her camera equipment into her own room, which was much larger, and set up a futon for Jim in her spare room. Sharing an apartment hadn’t proved too difficult. Jim had shared accommodations with varied people when he’d been in the military. Mostly he and Megan would follow Sandburg around all evening, charge back to the office to prepare and submit their story, then crawl home to crash and sleep away most of the day. With that kind of schedule, it wasn’t like they were going to be dating much, so there were no awkward “oh, that’s just my roommate” moments.

Jim felt a bit bad at putting Megan out, but she was a trooper of a journalist and pooh-poohed his concerns. “I’ve gone beyond the black stump with an absolute dill for a story, mate. I can certainly put up with a yobbo like you. This unit’s ace, now.” Jim was sure she did this on purpose, but he wasn’t about to admit he hadn’t a clue what she’d said.

Jim had actually enjoyed the camaraderie and was not surprised when Megan popped her head in his open bedroom door, ubiquitous cup of tea in hand. One of the things he liked about her was that she could be good company without feeling compelled to fill the air with chatter. She stood at the door, watching him, not pushing him to explain why he was listlessly folding and packing his few things in a small duffle bag.

“Can I make a comment, Jim?” she said as the silence between gradually shifted from companionable to awkward.

“I fold my boxers because I’m anal. Okay?”

She chuckled, “Well, I was wondering. But that wasn’t really what I was going to say.”

“I can’t do this anymore; leading him on, lying to him. He deserves better.” Jim crossed to the closet and yanked a beige sweater off the top shelf. “I’m getting out of town for a while. I’m going to take some of that vacation Joel promised me.”

“Running away is no solution. Tell him the truth. Give _him_ a chance to make his own choices.”

“I’m not going to hurt and humiliate him any more. I’ll leave that up to Gus Ventriss. I’m out of here. Going to go home and get caught up on a few things, then leave for Peru end of next week.” He looked up at Megan. “Thanks for letting me stay here. I know you couldn’t control what went in the papers—you and Joel—but I doubt I’ll ever work for any company in the Ventriss empire again. I might see if the _Cascade Tribune_ needs a good reporter. Maybe I’ll stay in Peru. My Quechua is a little rusty, but it’ll come back quick enough.”

No matter how many times Jim folded and refolded things, eventually he was done packing. Megan finished her tea but continued to fiddle with the cup. “What’ll I tell him if he rings?”

“Tell him I had to leave suddenly. I got a job in Peru or some place.”

“You’re acting like a schoolgirl.”

Jim rounded on her, although to Megan’s credit, she didn’t so much as flinch. “What else can I do? Keeping this up is no good. He’s bound to find out sometime.” His outburst faded as quickly as it had come. “At least I can save him that.”

“Aren’t you seeing him again tonight?”

“We were supposed to get together, but then the theatre group told him he was hosting a fundraiser. Nice of them to let him know, eh? He invited me, but I was afraid someone would recognize me.”

“Yeah. You’ve been really lucky on—” Megan was interrupted by a knock at the door.

“I’m so glad there’s a security system in the lobby,” Jim commented, heading into the tiny en suite bathroom to collect his shaving gear and toothbrush.

“It’s just Mr. Mustafi from down the hall,” Megan called after him. “I told him I’d take a photo of him and his dog to send home to wherever—” She didn’t bother to check the peephole and just opened the door to find it wasn’t Mr. Mustafi at all.

“Uh, hi. I’m Blair Sandburg. Does Jim Elliott live here?”

“Oh! Oh, yes, of course.” Then loudly, and a little in the direction of the spare room, she called, “Blair Sandburg. Step in, won’t you?”

Megan closed the door behind him, directing him to the living room.

“You’re Megan. Jim’s cousin, right?”

“Huh? Oh, yes, yes, of course. His cousin. Yes, I’ve been his cousin for a while now.”

“Is he home?”

“Hiya, Chief,” Jim said, appearing in the doorway.

“Hello, Jim. I waited in the park for you for half-an-hour. I thought maybe you’d forgotten.”

“I didn’t think you’d be there tonight, what with the big party and all.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t let them stop me from seeing you. I snuck out!”

“Won’t you be missed? It’s your party, isn’t it?”

“So what? They all think I’m a weirdo anyway. What more harm could it do?” He sighed and shoved his hands deeper into the pockets of his jeans. “I guess that’ll be in the papers tomorrow. It will give them something else to laugh at.”

Jim’s face clouded miserably.

“It’s no big deal, though. They get a party. I get to see you. Everybody wins.” Blair shook his head as if to clear thoughts of the party. “Would you like to go for a walk? Get out of here? I’ve been cooped up all day, and I’m feeling way antsy.”

Jim glanced at Megan, who was busily not doing anything in the kitchen. “Sure. Love to.”

“Goodnight, Megan. And don’t worry. I won’t keep him out too late.”

She laughed and saluted them with her re-filled teacup. “Have a nice evening, boys.”

The door almost closed, then opened again, and Jim stepped back in the apartment, catching Megan in the process of grabbing the camera equipped with a night scope. Jim stood before her, blocking her path. “No more photographs,” he said quietly.

Megan nodded and placed the camera on the hall table. “I promise, Jim. I just hope the rest of camera club are as easy for you to control.”

He headed out again, looking grim.

~ ~ ~

The evening was warm and the walk to the park pleasant. Conversation was sketchy. Blair appeared preoccupied, and Jim was lost in thought and guilt. They reached the park and settled on their usual bench without exchanging more than a handful of words. The silence continued for a while, never being quite comfortable or awkward. Finally Blair spoke. “Jim, I’m going home.”

“You are? What? To your mansion or to Clayton Falls?”

Blair nodded at the latter.

“When?”

“In a day or so, I think.”

“I don’t blame you,” Jim said quickly, harshly.

Blair seemed surprised by Jim’s words. _Well,_ thought Jim, _maybe Jim Elliott would ask him to stay, but J.J. Ellison is a prick that doesn’t deserve him and knows it_.

“I just don’t fit in around here. I once had an idea I could do something with the money, but they kept me so busy here, I haven’t had time to figure it out. I’m sure I’ll have more time and less distractions when I get back home.”

There was a long pause, each man lost in his own thoughts.

Finally Jim spoke, “I thought we were going to do some tests. Help me get control of these senses.” He couldn’t help the trace of bitterness that crept into his voice. He should be used to people running out on him by now; he’d had a lifetime of it.

“I’ve written it all out. We can email, talk on the phone.” He handed Jim a large brown envelope he’d been carrying. A sheaf of papers and an old, leather-bound book peeked out the top.

“Right. That’ll be great.” Jim didn’t really feel like it’d be great at all, but he could hardly make demands on Blair after the web of lies he’d spun, the pain he’s caused.

“Or…” Blair stared at the bag he’d just handed Jim. “You could come with me.”

Jim was stunned by the words. Now this was great news. He’d love to spend time with Blair, time away from the flashing cameras and vicious news crews because really, who’d bother to follow them to Clayton Falls? The Guide was only news as long as he was in Cascade; the country-mouse/city-mouse dynamic was the hook. Once he left, he’d look normal against the small town backdrop; in fact, any journalists who followed him there would end up looking like the fish out of water. Jim grinned at the thought. He could do it; he could go with Blair. They could get to know each other better, work on Jim’s senses, get Blair’s thesis re-started, finally have sex, they could…

“I’d love to, Blair, but I’m going to Peru for a while. Not sure when I’ll be back.”

Blair stared at Jim, his face turbulent with emotion. “Peru?” he whispered. “I like Peru.”

Jim turned to face Blair, a glimmer of hope on his face. “It’ll mean jungle travel, Blair. No five-star hotels.”

Blair made a rude noise. “Jim, I’ve been rich for exactly…” he stared at the streetlight. “…less than a month anyway. I’ve never stayed in a five-star hotel in my life. I’m sick of having everything done for me and nothing to do. Being rich is way boring. Hell, Peru doesn’t even need a travel visa and I always keep my passport up to date.”

“Well, I can promise you won’t be bored, Chief.”

**Chapter 21.     Quit or Miss**

“Stop it. Jim. Stop it! What do you mean you’re quitting? You might as well tell me _I’m_ quitting. Ventriss will have my hide if I let you go.” Joel’s face was an odd shade of burgundy. Jim wondered if that’s what “aubergine” meant. He also wondered if he should maybe call someone; he ran through the CPR steps in his mind.

“What’s eating you, Ellison?” Joel sat down heavily in his chair, reaching for a half-empty bottle of water. He chugged it, a little escaping to run down his tie. “Why now? You’re as deep in this thing as anybody.”

Jim stared out the window; sunlight danced off the gleaming chrome on the boats that bobbed in the Cascade Yacht Club. “He’s had enough, Joel. Last night, he told me he’s leaving.”

Joel looked upset. Jim wondered unkindly if it was because of the way they’d treated Blair or because Joel was losing his star reporter and going to get reamed for it. That wasn’t fair, he chided himself; Joel had spent the first part of his working life risking death and dismemberment for the city of Cascade. Still, people change, and Jim was hardly in the mood to cut anyone involved in “The Guide” debacle any slack at all.

“We’ve driven him away, Joel. Driven a good man from his home.”

“Did he ask you to go with him?”

Jim nodded miserably. Trust Joel to dig right to the heart of the matter.

Joel perked up. “Why, Jim. That’s terrific!” He held up his hands, framing the words in the air as he spoke them: _“Guide Heads for Home,_ Special Friend _in Tow.”_ We’ll play up the gay angle, that’s a hot topic at the moment, you know. ‘Will and Grace’, ‘Brokeback Mountain’, Canada. That’ll—”

“Print one word of that, and I’ll blow this fucking place up!” He realized after he’d said it, the irony this particular threat to the ex-captain of the bomb squad. He didn’t mean it of course.

“It’ll be sensitively done, Jim. I promise you that.”

“The way the whole Guide thing was so sensitively handled? Sorry, Joel. I know you’d try, but your hands are tied. Ventriss runs things around here, and we’ve turned into a freak show since he got involved.”

“Sorry, Jim. Sorry. It would have made a heart-warming story. Maybe a way to salvage the whole Sandburg situation. I just got carried away. So he asked you to go with him, huh? What a twist! You set out to nail him, and he—”

“Yeah. Funny twist, isn’t it?”

“Hey, you haven’t gone and fallen for him as well, have you?

Jim’s silence was eloquent.

“Well, I’ll be—” He rose and walked over to Jim, laying a hand gently on his arm. “Hey, You know none of that matters to me… matters to anyone with half a brain these days.”

Jim tried to smile, to show Joel he appreciated the support. He couldn’t quite manage it though.

“What’re you going to do?”

“I’ve asked him to go to Peru with me and he’s accepted. But before we go, I’m going to tell him the truth.”

“Tell him you’re J.J. Ellison? Tell him you’re the one been making a fool of him all this time? He won’t go to the shit-house with you after that, let alone a jungle jaunt to South America. Why not wait until you’re down there? In the jungle or something so he can’t get pissed off and leave.”

“I can’t, Joel. You know why. We need to clear the air before we go traipsing off into the Amazon rainforest. You need a certain amount of trust between people going out into dangerous situations, Joel. No one knows that better than you.”

Joel nodded.

“I’m not going to put his life in danger because of some stupid career aspirations I had. I’m having lunch with him today at his place. We’re supposed to hash out the details for Peru. It’s going to get pretty messy.”

“You’re crazy! You can’t do that! What if he tries to hit you?”

“I hope he does.” Jim looked defiantly into Joel’s worried eyes. “I’ll stand there and let him. I deserve it.”

“God, Jim! I’ve never seen you like this. Look, I’ll put you on another job, back on the crime beat like you asked. You don’t ever have to see him again.”

“Oh, right. That’ll be such an improvement.” Jim glared at Joel for even suggesting it. “If Blair and I are through, it’s going to be his decision. Not mine.”

“Oh, as bad as that, huh?”

“Telling him is a long shot, but it’s the only shot I’ve got. I’m going to take it.”

Joel watched Jim with sympathy and understanding. He nodded once. “I get it, Jim. I get it now. Go do what you’ve gotta do.”

“Well, it was fun while it lasted, Joel.” He reached out and grasped Joel’s hand, just holding it for a long moment. “Thanks for everything. I’ll go clean out my desk.”

**Chapter 22.     Paradise Tossed**  
 ****

Blair stepped from his room, singing _“Don’t Cry for Me, Argentina”._ It wasn’t about Peru, of course, but he didn’t know the lyrics to any Peru songs, so it was close enough. He didn’t know the words to this one either, really, but he knew enough to fake it. He checked his reflection in the ornate mirror at the top of the stairs. He’d changed three times and was finally sure this was the outfit he’d wear for his lunch with Jim today.

It was Jim’s first time in Blair’s new home, and he wanted everything to be perfect. He threw one leg over the banister and slid down, still singing. “ _…every word is truuuuuue!”_

In the dining room, Rafe was just putting the finishing touches on the table setting.

“How’s it going? Everything okay? You don’t think the flowers are too much, do you?” Blair babbled.

“Fine. Yes. And no, the flowers are a nice touch.”

Blair picked up a saltshaker and examined it. “Silver, eh?” Rafe nodded while polishing a fork and laying it down again. Blair straightened a soupspoon, adjusted a water glass.

“Did sir wish to do this himself?”

“Sorry. You don’t tell me about anthropology, so I should show you the same respect.”

“Yes, Mr. Blair.”

“Did you make sure it was all cooked like I was telling you? Not too much seasoning, easy on the spice.”

“Did you tell me that, sir?” Rafe inquired blandly. “I may have forgotten.”

“Oops. Still ‘sir’. I’m fucking up, aren’t I? You didn’t forget, did you?”

“No, Mr. Blair. Everything is cooked exactly to your specification. I even went to…” he shuddered visibly. “Wonderburger for some of their ‘secret sauce’. You do realize it’s nothing more than ranch dressing with extra salt and sugar added, don’t you?”

“Great. So now you can make it here at home without having to make a special trip to get it.” He slapped Rafe on the arm, he was in just such a good mood. Peru with Jim Elliott. It was like a dream come true. Anthropology and Jim; his two favourite things in the whole, wide world.

He sat in one of the chairs, leaning forward in an imaginary conversation with Jim, lips moving but not making a sound.

“Do me a favour, Rafe? Sit over there for a sec.”

Rafe sat down with far more grace than Blair ever had.

“Yes. That’s good. How tall are you? No, that’s good.”

They were practically nose-to-nose over the flowers. “Rafe, old buddy, old pal. I have something important to tell you.”

Rafe smirked, then tried to look serious. Blair chuckled. “These flowers, nice as they are, are too tall. It’ll be like having lunch with Poseidon except with mums instead of seaweed.”

Rafe rose and swapped the chrysanthemums for a lower bowl of daisies.

“How is this, Blair?”

“So it’s ‘Blair’, finally, without the ‘Mr.’ Guess that means you approve. It’s perfect! Perfect! Now don’t touch a thing!”

He hurried toward his bedroom to change again.

**Chapter 23.     The Rat’s Out of the Bag**  
 ****

Although Jim wasn’t expected for another 20 minutes, Blair couldn’t seem to settle and so wandered around command central. He groaned when Simon Banks appeared suddenly; he liked Simon well enough, but he wanted to be alone with Jim. But Simon was a flexible guy; Blair would see what he wanted, tell him he had company coming, and Simon would disappear.

But the look on Simon’s face as he loomed over Blair didn’t look promising.

“Uh, hi, Simon,” Blair tried.

“Look, Sandburg.” Oh, no. Simon calling him by his last name was almost as bad as Rafe calling him “sir”. He shuddered to think what was to come. “Look.” Simon continued, an angry note in his voice. “I don’t mind you making a sap out of yourself, but you made one out of me, too.”

“Huh?”

“Jim Elliott. Jim Elliott, my ass. That guy has been taking you on a ride that will keep Cascade laughing for years. He’s the slickest, double-crossing—”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Blair said between clenched teeth. “You’d better explain quick, Simon. What do you know about Jim Elliott?”

Instead of answering, Simon shoved a copy of the _Cascade Tribune_ under Blair’s nose. So far, Blair had only read _The Times._ He hadn’t bothered with _The Tribune,_ at all, figuring it was just more of the same sensationalist crap. He took the paper from Simon and scanned the page, quickly finding the article that had so offended Simon. It featured the shot taken a week or so ago of Blair reaching up to kiss Jim on the mouth. It was a touching picture of new love, and Blair’s heart warmed. Until he read the caption underneath: _“Unethical Journalist Uses Sex to get Story.”_

“Wha—?” Blair was speechless. What was going on?

He looked at Simon, who only said, “Read on, Sandburg. Read on.”

Blair began to read the article: _“It appears that our esteemed competitor will do anything to get a good story. Jim ‘J.J.’ Ellison of_ The Cascade Times _has been ‘seeing’ Sandburg aka ‘The Guide’. Perhaps something more than guiding has been going on. And with $20 million in the mix, maybe it’s not just the story Ellison is after.”_ The article went on the recap some of their activities. Blair turned to the middle section, and there were a lot more pictures, and unlike those that ran in _The Times,_ these ones clearly showed Jim—on the street, in restaurants, in the park. In each one, they were touching, leaning against one another or gazing into each other’s eyes. In one they were holding hands, in another, walking down the street with Jim’s arm slung over Blair’s shoulder.

“None of these things happened.” He looked up at Simon, feeling hurt and angry.

“Are you saying these are re-touched photos, Sandburg?”

“Well, No. I mean, Jim and I have been... It’s just that... Well, we haven’t, you know…”

“You’re missing the point, Sandburg. ‘Elliott’ is really J.J. Ellison, _The Times_ ’scrack journalist _._ Every time you opened your mouth, you gave him another story. He’s the one who nicknamed you ‘The Guide’. You’ve been hanging out with a liar and manipulator. He even lied to you about his name!”

“Shut up!” Blair screamed. “Shut up,” he said, quieter this time. The third time he said it, it was so soft it would have taken a Sentinel to hear it. He slumped down in his chair, still staring at the newspaper.

Simon Banks pulled out his cell and began to make calls.

 

**Chapter 24.     Sensational Lies**

Jim’s desk was almost bare. He was never one for clutter, but he did have a few personal items he wanted to take away with him. Megan had brought him an empty box, the kind that paper came in for the photocopier. It was bigger than he needed, but he didn’t care. He dropped the glass paperweight into it, and he was done.

He flipped through a small notebook, handing it to Joel, who stood nearby.

“Here, Joel. Give this to my replacement. It’s got the names of all the best informants in town. You can usually buy a bit of intel from them at reasonable prices. They’ll talk to a reporter long before they’ll talk to a cop. Everybody likes their name in the paper.”

“Aw, listen, Jim, I can’t let you quit now. You’re not going through with this, are you?”

Jim nodded his head with finality. His desk phone began to ring.

Joel picked up the receiver, holding it loosely in his hand. “If you ever change your mind, you can always come back.” He raised the phone to his ear. “Ellison’s office. Yeah. Just a sec.”

He held the receiver out to Jim. “You’re a newsman now, Jim. A journalist through and through. In a couple weeks—months, maybe—you’ll want to come back. And you’ll always have a job here.”

“Thanks, Joel. That’s, uh, nice of you. But I won’t be changing my mind.” Into phone he said, “Ellison here.”

“Jim Ellison? Could you hold a moment, please?” Simon almost managed to hide the disgust in his voice. He handed the phone to Blair.

Blair prayed it was a mistake, a misunderstanding, a joke. He half expected Simon to start laughing and saying, “You’ve been punk’d”.

“Hello, Jim?”

Still in the middle of his conversation with Joel, Jim forgot the Elliott ruse. “Oh, hey, Chief.”

His face went dead as he realized his mistake.

“Uh, Jim. I just called to ask you something. Is it you who’s been writing those articles about me?”

“Look, Chief, Blair. I was just leaving. I’ll be there in ten minutes. I was coming to explain. I quit my—”

The words died in his throat. He looked dully at the receiver. The dial tone sounded a death knell that grated upon his sensitive hearing.

~ ~ ~

Blair gently replaced the receiver in its stand, as if any sudden moves might shatter the world around him. His stomach lurched, and his eyes burned. He was silent a long time.

Rafe entered, carrying a bottle. “Shall I serve the wine with— Blair? You okay, man?”

“I think lunch is cancelled,” Simon said softly.

“Can I get anything… do anything?” Rafe asked.

Blair shook his head, not looking up.

“I’m so sorry, Blair. If I’d known you were going to take it so hard, I would have kept my mouth shut. Sorry.”

“It’s okay, Simon. It’s better I know now than when we got to Peru.” He spoke softly. “There is something you can do for me, Rafe. Would you mind packing my things? Just the stuff I came with. I’m going home.”

 

**Chapter 25.     Needle and Threat**  
 ****

Blair emerged from his bedroom, walking toward the staircase. In his hand he carried the backpack he had arrived in Cascade with less than a month earlier. He glanced at the gleaming banister, but wasn’t in a sliding mood. He walked down the wide staircase beside Simon, who was one of the very few things he’d miss about Cascade.

“You shouldn’t be running away like this. What’s going to happen to the estate?” Simon asked.

“They can shove the Goddamn estate up their collective ass, for all I care. I wish I’d never had anything to do with it.”

As Simon and Blair crossed the lobby toward the front entrance, a commotion could be heard coming from the kitchen. Simon hurried back there to investigate, Blair right on his heels.

They entered command central to find Rafe struggling with a wild-eyed man. The angry shouts of the two wrestling men tumbled over one another: “You can’t just walk in here!” “Let me go! I wanna see him!” “He’s not home!” “I just wanna speak to the guy!” “I’m calling the police!” “Let me go!”

Within seconds, Simon crossed the room and grabbed the intruder, all butch ex-cop. “What’s going on here?”

The man struggled for a few moments more before calming. Cautiously, Simon freed him. The man stood with wounded dignity, smoothing his shirtfront. He was middle-aged and wearing a cheap suit and tie. Rafe glared at him.

“There he is!” The man pointed at Blair, who stood frozen by the door. “There you are! I just wanted to see what kind of a man you were!”

He took a step toward Blair, but the immovable form of Simon Banks prevented him from proceeding.

Blair moved toward his uninvited guest warily. “Uh, can I help you?”

“I just wanted to see what a man looks like that can spend thousands of dollars on a party, while people around him go hungry! The Guide, huh? Did you ever stop to think how many families could have been fed on the money you pay out to get on the front pages? How ‘bout _guiding_ some of those publicity and entertainment bucks our way?”

Simon forcibly restrained him. “Come on, you! You’re leaving!”

“Let him alone,” Blair ordered.

The man instantly started his rant again, railing rhetorical questions at Blair. “How did you feel feeding doughnuts to a Goddamn horse? Get a kick out of it, huh? A big laugh? Did you ever think of feeding human beings! No!”

Blair stared at him, determined to wait him out, let him get it all off his chest so they could begin to communicate rationally. His minor in psychology was proving helpful or so he dearly hoped.

“Shall I call the police, Blair?” Rafe asked quietly.

“No, Rafe. Thanks.” To the man he said, “What do you want?” A reasonable question said in a reasonable tone of voice.

“Yeah, that’s all that’s worrying you. What do I _want?_ A chance to feed my wife and kids! I’m an American. I want a job! Cascade used to be a major manufacturing town, but now everything’s made in China. Or India or somewhere. Anyone who counted on a job to see them to retirement is shit out of luck now!”

At first Blair felt concerned, caring, then he felt his heart grow cold. “I’ve met nothing but manipulators and bullshit artists since I’ve come to town. You’re probably a liar and a moocher like everyone else.” He turned to leave; he’d had enough for one day. Let Simon deal with it. It was what Blair paid him to do, wasn’t it?

Suddenly a gun appeared in the man’s hand, aimed right at Blair. “Stay where you are, Sandburg! Get over there. All of you.” He gestured for them to gather by the fireplace.

“You’re about to get some more publicity, Mr. Sandburg! You’re about to get on the front page again! See how you’re going to like it this time! See what good your money’s going to do when you’re six feet underground. You never thought of that, did you?” His voice was rising, tinged with a note of hysteria. “My name is Fernando Capobianco, and I worked for Cascade Industries for 17 years. Then they do some cost analysis thing and boom, we’re all out of work. Sure, they gave us a severance package, but I don’t want charity. I want to work. I’m dyslexic, so I can’t do anything but manual labour, and now I can’t do that.” Tears began to run down his face. “I’m an honest worker just trying to feed my wife and kids.”

“I’m sorry this is happening to you.” Blair’s heart went out to the guy, his mind raced for solutions. “But what’s it got to do with me?”

Capobianco’s face hardened again, and he pointed the gun at Blair’s heart. “Don’t fuck with me _, Guide.”_ He spat on the marble floor. “You own Cascade Industries and you know it!”

But his new flare of anger burned out fast, and he began to sob quietly. He glanced down and, seeing the gun in his hand, stared at it in surprise. “Oh, God!” Fernando said, almost inaudibly, slumping into a nearby chair. He held the gun out, handle first, whispering “Sorry. Sorry.”

Simon stepped forward swiftly and grabbed the gun, quickly opening the chamber. “Empty,” he pronounced, slapping it closed. “The fucker had no bullets.”

“Never meant to hurt anyone.” Fernando hid his face in his hands sobbing. “Crazy. You get all kinds of crazy ideas. I just wanted…”

Blair watched him, moved to pity. “Don’t,” he said softly to Rafe, who had moved silently to the nearest telephone and begun dialling. At Blair’s word, he replaced the phone but hovered near it.

Walking over to the weeping man, Blair squatted by his side. “Tell me,” he said softly. “I didn’t know I owned Cascade Industries and I really want to know what happened, what happened to you.”

Blair’s kindness only made Fernando cry harder, begging their forgiveness for his temporary insanity. “You don’t know what it’s like. Seeing my kids go hungry. My wife trying to cheer me up, like I’m not some kinda failure. Trips to the food bank. It kills me to take a handout. Go ahead and do what you want with me. I’m at the end of my rope.”

A sympathetic tear ran down Blair’s own cheek. Simon’s lower lip trembled, and Rafe left his post by the phone and quickly reappeared with a plate of cold cuts that had been intended for Blair’s lunch with Jim Elliott.

~ ~ ~

At the table that had been set for Jim, Nandy Capobianco sat, eating voraciously, paying serious attention to his food. Blair sat opposite him, watching.

The man stopped eating abruptly. “Can I take some of this home with me?”

Blair nodded.

**Chapter 26.     Generous to a Vault**  
 ****

****  
_Guide to Give Fortune Away_  


****  
_Sandburg Plan Startles Financial World_  


****  
_Cascade Industries to Re-open. Workers Reinstated with Back-pay, Benefits_  


****  
_Hundreds of New Positions Created at Cascade Industries_  


****  
_Staff of Workers Investigate Applicants_  


****  
_Thousands of Unemployed Storm Sandburg Home Hoping for Jobs_  


Blair’s inherited mansion had seen many gatherings over its life, but this was the first one that didn’t involve hors d’oeuvre and fancy mixed drinks. The front yard was spilling over with people, and a mob of men and women clamoured at the gates, jostling each other, carefully watched by police.

Blair’s ballroom had been transformed into something resembling a wartime induction centre. He sat at one end of the room at a giant antique desk with a wall of cardboard boxes beside it. Fine antique furniture had been pressed into service as workstations: a Louis the Fifteen dressing table and an early pine harvest table were now home to laptops and telephones and busy clerks. A Chippendale dining table pushed against one wall held coffee and doughnuts. Rafe had made sure that a large glass cutting board had been inserted between the coffee makings and the table to protect the finish. Computer cables criss-crossed the parquet dance-floor. A photocopier now stood where the chamber music trio had played at the theatre party only a few days before.

On one side and leading out into the hall was a long line of people waiting to be interviewed.

“Go on. You’re next, ma’am,” Henry Brown directed, on site now in his official capacity. Two uniformed policewomen accompanied him. It was their job to run police checks and metal detectors on each person before they were ushered into the room. Although Nandy Capobianco had been forgiven, his little moment of insanity had made it clear that Blair was a potential target. The pile of confiscated weaponry locked in a trunk beside them, however, remained surprisingly small.

Blair sported two days’ growth of beard and looked exhausted. Next to him was Richard, a student recruited through the employment office at Rainier. Richard was going to be a doctor someday, but today he was interviewing potential factory workers. The student-clerks arrived in shifts, and Blair was just showing the newly arrived Richard the ropes.

“You were a lead-hand on the green team, Mr. Lebowitz?” he asked the next applicant.

“Yes, sir.”

“All right. I think you’ll qualify.” Richard handed Lebowitz a completed form. “Take this to that desk over there for further instructions.”

“Thank you very much. You’re a good man. No, a great man!”

Blair smiled tiredly at the praise. “I’m just a guy with a buck. Next, please.”

Another man stepped forward and stood before Blair and Richard’s shared desk.

“How many does that make?” Blair asked Richard. They had 400 new positions to fill, and roughly 2,300 old ones. Those numbers would shift, of course, depending on how many came forward asking for their old jobs back. Some people had found other employment, some had moved away or passed on. Those people were still entitled to back-pay, according to Blair’s rules, but these things could be dealt with at a later date. Right now, he was absolutely beat and just wanted to know how many more there were to go.

The clerk shuffled some papers, keyed some info into a computer and hit “Total”. “That’s 1,619.”

“Is that all?” Blair smiled, proud and tired. “How many more to go?”

Richard did a few more calculations, “Out of a possible 2,700 positions, you’ve okayed 1,619.” He hit the keypad a few more times. Which means there are still 1,081 left to fill. And more interviews than that for people who aren’t qualified or are trying to scam us.” A few fakers had shown up claiming to have worked for Cascade Industries and demanding back-pay; but thanks to computerized records and photo-ID, they’d been quickly turned away. The presence of Cascade’s finest had probably deterred more from trying that particular con game.

“It’s going awfully slow. We need more help. Do you think any of the people here could—” He was interrupted by his phone. He didn’t want to answer it, but couldn’t bear the tinkly little version of _“Don’t Cry for me, Argentina”._ He’d set his ring tone to play that song when he’d been planning on going to Peru with Jim. He meant to re-set it, but something always distracted him. He flipped it open. “Blair Sandburg. Oh, yes. Yes. The building was inspected and approved to re-open with minor upgrades, but I don’t know about the conveyor equipment yet. Come up tonight around ten and bring the specs. Right.” He clapped the phone shut.

Nandy Capobianco approached. “Here’s the order for the steel. Joe, over there.” he gestured at a collection of planners and analysts gathered in the far corner, using the grand piano as a workstation. “Joe said to tell you we got a good price on ‘em.”

Blair took the piece of paper and smiled. “Thanks, Nandy. That’s fine. I’ll look them over later.”

“Oh. Mr. Sandburg?”

Blair looked up

“Pina, that’s my wife, wanted me to tell you she…” he hesitated a moment. “She prays for you every night. Is that okay? I know you’re not Catholic.” He shifted uneasily from one foot to the other.

Blair was both touched and a little embarrassed. “Well, thanks. I, uh, don’t think anyone’s ever prayed for me before. Tell Pina I appreciate it, but ask her to widen her scope a bit, will you?” He gestured widely indicating their entire operation and all the people waiting outside. “I’d hate to hog all the blessings. There’s others here need it more than me.”

Nandy smiled and stepped away. The next applicant moved quickly in to fill the space.

“Hi. I’m Blair. And this is Richard.” Blair introduced himself and the clerk sitting next to him. “And you are?”

“Roger Rankin, sir. I was a supervisor before the plant closed. I hear I might be able to get my old job back. I haven’t worked since the plant closed. They just don’t seem to need a man who knows how to get things done anymore.” He grinned wryly.

“Well, Rick here is just going to pull up your employment records, and we’ll get you re-instated. If you have your bank card or account information with you, we can deposit your back-pay right into your account today.”

“We’ll need to see some ID, Mr. Rankin,” Richard added.

“I’ve got my driver’s license, social security card, passport. Hell, I even brought my wedding photos in case you wanted them. I wasn’t taking any chances on this. You’re giving me my life back.” As he spoke, he produced plastic cards and paper documents, piling them in front of Richard, who examined them carefully. “Here’s my old security card. I’ve greyed up a little since then, but you can see it’s me, all right.”

Blair took the card and examined it. The man had aged ten years in the five since the plant had closed. It was hardly an isolated event, and Blair felt guilty even though it hadn’t been his fault. Richard looked up at him, nodded and smiled. Now this was the part of the job that made it all worthwhile. He stuck out his hand. “Welcome back, Mr. Rankin. If you take this form over to Mary at the next desk, she’ll see that five years of back-pay, compensation in lieu of benefits and vacation are deposited into your account. I’m afraid you’ll have to submit receipts to be reimbursed for medical bills incurred during the time away. Oh, and you’ll get full credit for those five years on your retirement pension. Do you mind if I call you Roger?”

“You can call me any damn thing you please.” He yanked Blair into a big hug, tears streaming down his creased face. “When do I start?”

“I’m trying to get the plant up and running, but it could take a few weeks. Until then, you can go home and spend a little quality time with your family at full pay. Now, since you were a supervisor, you might get called back in— _oompf.”_ Blair got hugged again and had to reassure Henry Brown he was okay and not being attacked.

 

**Chapter 27.     Bald-Faced Lawyer**  
 ****

Lee Brackett sat behind his desk, Cassie Wells and Larry Lipshitz seated across from him. Cassie and Brackett exchanged a conspiratorial glance as Larry sat with his pen poised hesitantly above a stack of official-looking documents.

“We have very little time. He’s ordered me to turn everything over to him immediately. We have to work fast before he disposes of every penny.”

“See, Larry! I _told_ you something could be done. I knew it all the time. Sign it.”

“We don’t need the money, Cassie, and those people Cousin Blair is helping really do. It isn’t fair for us to take it away from them.”

“Oh, don’t be such a bleeding-heart! You worked your way up from nothing. You deserve what you get. Those people had the same opportunities, but they didn’t avail themselves of them, expecting a free ride all their lives.”

“The law, Larry, is all about fairness. If it turns out that it is, as you say, unfair, let the courts decide. Who are we, after all, to interpret the law?” Brackett spread his hands and smiled. Larry still looked unsure.

He set aside the top document, still unsigned, and perused the next one.

“What’s this one?”

“That’s your agreement with Lee, if we win,” Cassie leapt in, a patronizing note in her voice, as if she were speaking to a child that was a little slow.

“You see, my end was going to be rather expensive.” Brackett sat forward, steepling his fingers. “I have a lot of important people to take care of. I have the legal machinery all set and ready to go. I’ve been working on nothing else for the last week. You say the word, and we’ll get an order to stop Blair from dispersing your uncle’s estate until the courts can decide what’s fair.” Brackett knew he was very good at manipulation. “Don’t you want to do what’s best with your uncle’s estate?”

“Just sign it, already!” Cassie ordered. “It’s just a first step. It doesn’t really change anything.”

“Oh, all right.” Larry sighed and began signing documents, both Brackett and Cassie leaned forward, practically drooling.

As the final paper was signed, sealed and witnessed, Brackett pressed the button on the intercom. “Rhonda?”

A tinny voice responded. “Yes, Lee?”

“Tell the senior partners that the papers are signed. Have Norman get that subpoena for J.J. Ellison at _The Times_ right away.”

 

**Chapter 27.     Asset Trip**  
 ****

“Next!” Richard called. He needn’t have raised his voice, though. The instant Roger stepped away, the next person filled the spot. At first, it had seemed to Blair like a vending machine; one person moved along and was conveniently replaced by another. Now he started to feel like _The Sorcerer’s Apprentice_ and longed for some wizard to come and make it all go away.

Simon Banks strode across the ballroom, pushing his way through the organized chaos toward Blair’s desk.

“Blair, you look awful.”

Blair smiled up at Simon, who stood, arms crossed and looking pretty grumpy, an unlit cigar clenched in his teeth. “Thanks, Simon. Nice to see you, too.”

“When was the last time you slept? Or ate, for that matter? You are knocking off for lunch, now.” Simon looked pretty tired as well. He, too, was working day and night to help pull together the re-opening of Cascade Industries. They had realized immediately that Blair’s $20 million wasn’t going to cover much more than the initial retro-fits and most of the back-pay. To be operational, they’d have to obtain some substantial financing. Jack Douglas of the Theatre Board was head of a large bank and had made some creative recommendations concerning IPOs and income trusts. Blair, together with Simon, and his accountant, had given Douglas the go-ahead to begin securing investors.

“I’ll eat when you do.” Blair gave Simon a meaningful look. “I want to get through this as soon as possible, and then I want to go home to Clayton Falls. What price did you get on those trucks?”

“What are you trying to do, kid? Keel over? You haven’t been out of this house in days.”

“Well, maybe I will have a little something.” He turned to the next person in line, a capable looking black woman brandishing a sheaf of identification papers like a fan. “Richard here will take over. ‘Kay?”

“Oh, sure, sure. No problem by me. But if you like to have ‘a little something’,” she winked and picked up a large woven bag that lay at her feet, “I can give to you.”

She reached into the bag and extracted two Tupperware containers, placing them on the desk before Blair. Quickly, she peeled back the lid, and delicious-smelling steam drifted out, making Blair’s mouth water. “Me daughter just bring to me in line, there, not 20-minute ago.” She raised the plastic container and wafted it under Blair’s nose. “Is still hot. You like goat?” she asked in a charming West Indies accent.

“Goat? Curry goat? I _love_ curry goat. This is so great. Thank you. Thank you.” She’d produced a plastic spoon from somewhere, and he dove in, trying not to eat too quickly.

She opened the other container and began to eat, standing there before them. Blair looked at her, then at Simon, who was swaying on his feet. The fork froze mid-way to his mouth. Richard was looking across the desk at him, licking his lips. Every eye in the long, long line up was riveted on him.

Blair lowered the fork. He picked up his cell phone and dialled his own number.

“Mr. Sandburg’s residence.” Rafe, too, sounded just about done in.

“Rafe! Please call every pizza place in town and get hundreds—I dunno,” He covered the phone with his hand. “Hey, Henry! How many people are here, including outside? Just an guesstimate.”

“We let in a total of 100 each morning,” Henry shouted back. “Then we let one in for everyone that leaves. There’s about 300 outside the gates at the moment.”

“Thanks, Henry.” Blair shouted, “Rafe! Oops.” He lowered his voice back to normal decibels. “Sorry. Can you order pizza for 400 very hungry people? Is there enough bottled water?” They had been distributing water since day one, which, as Nandy had pointed out and thereby proving himself indispensable, would require Port-a-Potties as well.

They’d commissioned paramedics who were on standby and had already delivered one new baby girl to the world, who was promptly named Blair. Richard had run out and taken the mother’s details between contractions, making sure she’d have a paid maternity leave for the first few months of little Blair’s life. The street was lined with a miscellany of chairs, from plastic lawn furniture to expensive Windsor ladderbacks for those who found standing a problem. And Simon had spent a fair amount of time cajoling licenses from the city and appeasing grumpy neighbours.

Some of the rich people in the neighbourhood had been horrified that— _gasp!_ —blue-collar workers would be milling about in front of Blair’s house for the next few weeks. Mrs. Owens-Thomas from next door—the one who let Blair sneak in and out of his house via her property—had been delighted with Blair’s noble undertaking. Blair waved to her at the next desk. She’d been a real trooper, working beside Blair and Simon and Nandy for the planning stages.

She’d originally made her money in software, having designed a nifty little program that helped people plan their weddings and other special events, run small businesses, etc. In a matter of days, she’d written a customized version, uploaded Cascade Industries’s database, which they were able to get from the accountants, and installed it on a hastily cobbled LAN of rented computers. Her software streamlined the entire operation and meant the sorting of payroll and personnel issues would take days instead of months.

“What? Pizza for everybody? When they’re about to get huge cheques from us!” Simon tossed his well-loved cigar in the wastebasket at Blair’s feet.

“Well, that doesn’t make ‘em any less hungry.” Blair emphasized his point by savouring another bite of curry goat stew.

“Okay, Santa Claus. Pizza for 400!”

“And order a whole boat load of chicken for anyone who’s lactose or wheat intolerant,” Richard added.

Simon chuckled as he headed back to his own office, set up in command central. He and a couple of other recruits were the front line for all incoming issues and outgoing concerns. Blair smiled tiredly, wondering what he would have done without Simon and glad he didn’t have to find out.

Richard began to take vital statistics from the curry goat-lady while Blair finished up his lunch. He had just downed the last possible forkful when there was a bit of a scuffle among the waiting people. One man was pushed forward by some others. He mumbled a protest, trying to get back into position, but the men pushed him forward again.

“Go on, say something. Say something!” the group encouraged.

Blair looked up inquiringly.

The man finally stepped forward to stand before Blair, shifting, ill-at-ease, his head hanging bashfully. “Mr. Sandburg, they…” he jerked his head in the direction of the line-up. “They wanted me to say a little something. They just wanted me to say…” He cleared his throat. Blair was getting curious and maybe a little worried at the production. “Well, they wanted me to say that we think you… what you’re doing here… is great. Noble, even.” He blushed and tried to step back.

“Say something more, Sayid!” the line yelled.

The spokesman had apparently not quite finished yet. Feeling self-conscious, Blair glanced around, surprised to notice uniformed men heading his way. They stood behind Sayid, waiting for him to conclude.

“Give me a chance, fellas.” Sayid shouted at his colleagues before turning back to Blair. “We’ve all had a rough time of it since the plant closed. But then you come along, it kinda gives us a little hope, and they just wanted me to say—”

The three strangers had apparently grown tired of waiting for Sayid to complete his thank-you mission. “Break it up. You’re done now. Go on home.” One of the uniformed men clapped a hand on Sayid’s shoulder.

The most imposing of the three walked around Blair’s desk, standing close and glaring down. “Are you Blair Sandburg?”

“Yes? What can I do for—”

“I’m Deputy Sheriff Bale.” He shoved an official looking document so close to Blair’s face he jerked back to avoid being clocked by the papers and the fist holding them. “We’ve got a warrant to take you into custody.”

“A what?” Blair just sat there, looking dazed.

“A warrant for your arrest.” He repeated it, speaking very, very clearly. “You’ll have to come along with us.”

Blair was so shocked, he barely registered Simon’s appearance at his side. “What’s going on here? What do you men want?”

“I don’t know nothing, buddy. All I know is the Sheriff gave me an insanity warrant to execute.”

“Insanity! It’s you who’s insane here.” Simon snatched the papers from the Bale’s hand. “Who says he’s incompetent? Henry!”

But Henry Brown and the other uniforms had their hands full trying to keep the crowd from attacking the Sheriff. “It’s legit, Simon!” Henry shouted back over one shoulder. “I just got a call from Finkleman warning me it was coming!”

Lee Brackett stepped forward, having remained out of sight up to this point.

“I’m sorry, Simon.” He held out his hand to Simon, not even looking at Blair. Brackett drew his hand back quickly when Simon looked like he might bite it off. “The complainant is another nephew of the late David Lipshitz. The charges are that Mr. Sandburg is incompetent and incapable of handling the Estate that he’s inherited.”

“This is a conflict of interest, Brackett. You’re his lawyer.” Simon gestured at Blair who was still seated.

“Since Mr. Sandburg never responded to my queries with regard to the renewal of our relationship. I was forced to look for other clients. I have a business to run, you know.”

“But, but…” Blair sputtered. “You’re supposed to be _my_ lawyer.”

“No, Sandburg. I was your uncle’s lawyer. You inherit the estate, not the law firm.” He looked daggers at Blair. “You never engaged us, you didn’t even answer my calls.”

Simon strode over to Brackett; Blair had never seen him be quite so imposing. “Looks like _somebody_ got panic-stricken about Blair giving all his money away.” His dismissal of Brackett was so final, that anyone watching knew that Simon Banks would never speak to Lee Brackett again in this or any other lifetime. Simon turned now, projecting his aura of intimidation at the deputy sheriff, “Where do you think you’re going to take him?”

Bale put a hand on his holster, the two other deputies closing ranks behind him, just as Henry Brown and Nandy Capobianco stepped up behind Simon. Blair still sat, stunned and exhausted, watching the surreal proceedings as if in a dream. “You can tell his lawyer he’s being taken to the Cascade General Hospital.”

Brackett stepped up, trying to get into Simon’s face. “It’s for his own good and the good of society. We don’t know if he’s a danger to himself.” He lowered his voice to a stage whisper. “Or to others.” He straightened up and spoke loudly. “Of course, that’s only temporary. A hearing will follow immediately.”

Blair rose, looking pale and utterly beaten. “Oh, Jeeze. Just because I want to give this money to people who need it, they think I’m crazy? First, the one person I cared about in this town makes me out to be crazy, then my cousin and my lawyerconspire to lock me up. I never should have left Clayton Falls! They liked me there.”

Bale took out a pair of handcuffs, then replaced them quickly as the crowd began to murmur angrily and close in. He placed a proprietary hand on Blair’s shoulder instead. “Come with me now, Mr. Sandburg.” He eyed the crowd nervously. The curry goat lady alone was pretty menacing, let alone another 99 displeased applicants.

“Wait a minute! Not so fast.” Simon insinuated himself between Deputy Sheriff Bale and Blair. “We’re going to get a lawyer. I’ll call…” He paused. Brackett and associates had been the only law firm involved with them all for years; Brackett had seen to that.

Blair stepped around Simon and stood beside the sheriff. He was tired, distraught and thoroughly disillusioned. “No, don’t bother. I’ll come quietly.”

“Let’s go. We’re wasting a lot of time.” Bale took one of Blair’s arms, his assistant deputy the other, but before they could take two steps, Blair pulled back violently, yanking his arms out of their grasps.

Blair stood there, chest heaving, head down like a bull about the charge. “All right, I’ll go. But get your hands off me!”

Blair began to walk toward the door, accompanied by Simon Banks. The deputies and Brackett fell in behind them. The crowd parted for them, a murmur of confusion spreading through the line and back to those waiting out on the lawn.

“What’s going to happen to us?” Nandy asked, as they passed him, but Blair didn’t answer; he just hung his head and walked on. “What’s going to happen to you?” Nandy muttered.

**Chapter 19.     Confront and Centre**  
 ****

Jim pulled his truck into the Cascade General Hospital parking lot. He didn’t have much hope left that he’d get into see Blair at all before the competency hearing. He’d tried pretending to be a delivery boy yesterday and had claimed to have a subpoena for Blair to sign the day before. By now, the guards all knew him by sight, but he had to try again. He had to keep trying; he owed it to Blair.

It was lunch hour, and Jim found a linen closet that wasn’t locked and started pawing through the dirty laundry cart. It was more than a little disgusting, and he shuddered to think what kind of bio-hazards he might be touching. His fingers curled around a small plastic rectangle; success! He hauled a formerly white lab coat out of the pile, stained, but not too offensive. He yanked it on quickly, checking out the battered name badge still pinned to it; Dr. McKay must have forgotten to unpin it when he changed. Lucky for me, Jim thought grimly.

He left the linen closet, having garnered a clipboard as well—no one could tell it contained the laundry schedule and not a patient chart. He took a deep breath and rounded the corner quickly, trying to look as over-worked and self-important as possible. He headed for the door to Blair’s room.

“Hey, Doc,” the guard said, quickly interposing himself between Jim and the door. “Sorry, but I gotta check my list. Oh, it’s you again.” He touched the lab coat. “Nice try though.” He wiped his hand on his pants.

“I’ve got to see him! Call Captain Finkleman and ask her. She’ll vouch for me.”

“Look, Ellison, I know who you are. I wasn’t a cop yet when you left, but I know your rep. I’d let you in if I could, but you know the drill as well as anyone. You’re not on the list, you don’t get in.” The young cop blushed a bit. “I would if I could.”

“Will you at least give him my name?”

“Listen. Just between us, there ain’t a thing wrong with that guy _until_ someone mentions your name. Then he goes ballistic!”

Jim winced at that. “Sorry to keep bothering you. It won’t happen again.” He turned away but stopped just around the corner.

~ ~ ~

Within the locked hospital room, Blair was seated by the far wall, peering moodily out the barred window. Simon Banks paced about. Suddenly, he wheeled on Blair.

“What’re you going to do, Sandburg? Just sit back and let them railroad you? It’s a frame-up! If you’d just let me get you a lawyer!”

Blair paid no attention to him.

Simon Banks continued, raising his voice, “You can’t walk into that courtroom without being ready to protect yourself in the clinches. Brackett’s too smart. With the array of talent he’s got lined up against you… he’ll eat you alive!”

“I’m not nuts, Simon. Am I?”

Simon ignored the ridiculous question. “Do you realize what’s happening? If they win the case, it’s not just that you’ll lose control of the money. I know you don’t care about that. It’s that they’ll lock you in the cracker factory. You’ll be sharing the shower with guys like that serial killer Warren Chappel. The hearing starts tomorrow!”

Blair considered this a long while, and Simon let him. Finally, he said, “Okay, Simon. Okay. I’ll meet with Beverly Sanchez. No—” He cut off Simon’s objections. “It’s Beverly or no one.”

Simon had a high-powered lawyer lined up, but Sanchez was certainly better than no one. “I’ll get right on that, Blair,”

Outside the hospital room, the guard read his paper. Jim waited just out of sight.

“So long, Mr. Banks.” The guard said.

“Bye, Wilson.”

As Simon rounded the corner, heading for the elevator, Jim stepped in front of him. “Simon,” he said quietly.

Simon took one look at Jim and kept moving. Jim reached out grabbing his arm, “Simon!” he said, louder this time.

Simon stopped, glaring at Jim’s hand where it gripped Simon’s arm, wrinkling his suit jacket.

Jim dropped his hand. “I’ve got to see him, Simon! I’ve got to talk to him!”

“Haven’t you done enough damage already, Ellison?” He eyed the lab coat, blowing out a huge breath in exasperation.

Simon’s caustic attack stung like the hard truth it was. Jim gasped, but steeled himself and continued. “Somebody’s got to help him! He hasn’t got a chance against Brackett. Look, I’ve been all over town talking to everybody. I’ve got Joel all lined up. And the paper’s behind him; Ventriss knows a potential lawsuit when he sees one. And I can get him Livingston, the paper’s lawyer. With a lawyer like Livingston, he’s got a fighting chance.”

“You’re wasting your time. He doesn’t want any high-powered lawyer. He’s picked a woman who makes her living on charity cases. He certainly doesn’t want or need any help from you. It’s your fault he’s in this mess to start with. You crucified him! For a couple of headlines! What happened to you, Ellison? You used to be someone I respected.”

“He hasn’t got a chance with Sanchez. Get him a real lawyer. Get him—”

“How the hell did you know about Sanchez? He only just told _me_ a minute ago.” Simon’s eyes narrowed. “If I find you have surveillance equipment on him, Jim, so help me I’ll prosecute you and that disgusting rag you work for to the full extent of the law and then some.” He pulled out his cell phone, “Captain Finkleman, please. Sarah? Banks here. I want Sandburg’s hospital room swept for bugs right away. Just trust me on this.” He snapped the phone closed.

Simon turned his back on Jim and walked away, eschewing the elevator and taking the stairs.

Jim stood in the hall a long time, although what he was waiting for he couldn’t have said.

 

**Chapter 30.     Courtroom Trauma**  
 ****

****  
_Lipshitz Heir Charged with Incompetency_  


****  
_Sandburg Sanity Hearing Today!_  


****  
_Ex-Cascade Industries Workers Unemployed, Unpaid_  


****  
_Police Fear Courthouse Riot_  


The area surrounding the courthouse was a zoo. This turn of events in the life of Blair Sandburg was the most fascinating human-interest story to hit Cascade since the Angie Ferris case. A large group of former Cascade Industries employees were there, worrying about their futures. The generally nosy public hung out in knots, waiting for a chance to see something, anything.

Nandy, Roger, Joe, and the curry goat lady, whose name was Thelma Aruba, stood around looking nervous. They were more worried about Blair than they were about being reimbursed for old debts. Money came and went, but a good man was a rare treasure. A _paisano_ of Nandy’s appeared at the edge of the crowd, beckoning, and led them in the janitor’s entrance. They quickly grabbed seats at the back of the rapidly filling courtroom.

Inside, the corridor was jammed with reporters and photographers jockeying for position. Celebrity hounds and thrill seekers tried to gain entrance while Kevlar-vested police strove to keep them back.

The courtroom was packed. People stumbled over each other to find a seat. The bailiff and his assistants had their work cut out for them.

The judge’s bench was not yet occupied. The room was abuzz with the chatter of excitement and anticipation.

Among the spectators, Jim Ellison sat quietly beside Joel Taggert, his hearing clamped down tightly. He stared, expressionless, at the floor beneath his feet. Joel glanced at his friend sympathetically. He refrained from taking notes; this was one story he had no intention of covering.

Simon sat at the defendant’s desk, looking tired and angry, beside him, Beverly Sanchez scrawled last minute ideas in a coil-bound notebook. They’d worked day and night to prepare Blair’s defence, and Simon had quickly come to see the wisdom Blair had shown in picking Beverly as his lawyer. She was unconcerned about payment and totally dedicated to Blair. It didn’t matter that if they lost, Blair wouldn’t have much to pay her with. Simon would pay her from his own pocket if it came to that.

Behind Beverly, in the first row of spectators, Rafe sat quietly. He was easily the best-dressed man in the room. In his lap he clutched a small suitcase, hoping for the chance to hand Blair a change of clothing. Nearby was Norma Owens-Thomas, the programmer from next door who’d been so helpful with the Cascade Industries campaign. She turned around when she felt a hand on her shoulder. Nandy hugged her in greeting, kissing both cheeks, and asked her to let Blair know the Cascade Industries contingent was seated in the back row.

It was a small group of friends that Blair had gathered around him since he’d been in Cascade, but a very loyal one. Their faces were grim and determined. No one was going to lock up their friend without a fight.

On the opposing side of the courtroom, Lee Brackett and Oliver were seated, conversing smugly, fussing with papers and files. Next to them, Larry Lipshitz, the complainant, sat, head down, toying with his tie, which was beginning to unravel a little. Cassie Wells scanned the courtroom expectantly, as if she was about to watch an entertaining performance being given for her benefit.

Directly behind them sat Brackett’s other partners and legal assistants, along with a professorial-type, presumably an expert witness, a psychiatrist perhaps. The press table was located down one side of the room with representatives from the major dailies, including Gus Ventriss, who had decided to cover the hearing himself since Taggert had refused.

From a side door, Blair entered. Immediately the place was astir. Jim Ellison sat up quickly, attention riveted on Blair. Impulsively, he started to rise, but Joel put a restraining hand on his shoulder.

“There he is!” Oliver exclaimed, stating the obvious his forte.

A guard accompanied Blair, holding him by the upper arm. Jim winced. It made Blair look like a criminal, a danger to those in the courtroom. He was glad Blair had waved his right to a jury. A judge, Jim hoped, wouldn’t be swayed by the trappings of the legal system. At least Blair wore normal clothing: wheat-coloured pants, a grey Henley and a sport jacket. Thank God, they hadn’t forced him to wear an orange jumpsuit and leg-irons although Jim suspected Brackett had probably tried for it.

As Blair advanced to his seat, necks craned for a glimpse and hushed comments were whispered back and forth.

Blair looked bad; his face was drawn, with dark circles underscoring his eyes. He glanced neither left nor right, but sat down hard, slumping low in his chair. He stared solemnly into space. Simon Banks leaned over, speaking softly so only Blair could hear. And Jim. It was difficult, but he was beginning to get the hang of the techniques that Blair had written out and given him that last night in the park. He closed his eyes and focussed on his hearing, visualized a dial turning up the volume, gradually reaching out…

“Listen. Brackett just sent a text message to my Blackberry. They want to settle. They,” Simon jerked his chin in the direction of the prosecution. “Are willing to drop the insanity charges if you agree to let Brackett’s firm manage the money for you—a full power of attorney. Here’s your chance to get out of the whole mess. What do you say?”

“Forget it, Simon.” Blair sounded exhausted and depressed. “I’m either crazy or I’m not.” He slouched in his seat. “And no one is more anxious to find out than me.” He glanced at the prosecution seated across the aisle.

Larry Lipshitz looked pleased to see his cousin. He gave Blair a tiny wave. Cassie slapped the waving hand down on the table, hard. She looked at Brackett, concerned. Brackett reassured her with a confident grimace.

There was a stir in the courtroom as the bailiff announced the judge’s arrival. “Quiet, please! This court of the State of Washington, City of Cascade, is now in session, the Honourable May Perlman, Judge, presiding. Be seated.”

The Honourable Judge Perlman peered sternly over her half-glasses. “The court wishes to warn those present that it will tolerate no disturbances.” She focussed her gaze on Blair meaningfully. Looking down at her notes, she began, “Regarding the competency hearing of Blair Donovan Sandburg, are you represented by counsel, Mr. Sandburg?”

“Yes, he is, Your Honour. I, Beverly Sanchez, licensed to practice law in this State, have been retained to represent Mr. Sandburg in these proceedings.”

“That’s very nice, Ms. Sanchez. Very official.” From the angle she was standing, Jim could see a hint of a smile on Sanchez’s face. “However,” Judge Perlman continued. “In future, when I ask Mr. Sandburg a question, I expect him to answer, if you don’t mind too terribly much. This is a hearing, not a trial. If counsel doesn’t know the difference, then perhaps they shouldn’t be here.”

The smile disappeared from Sanchez face as she mumbled an apology.

“Opposing counsel?” The judge inquired mildly. “Opening arguments, please.”

Brackett rose to his feet, “Thank you. If it please the court, Your Honour, I am Lee Brackett of the firm Brackett, Brackett, Brackett and Oliver, established by our grandfather in 1924 and doing continuous business in the State of Washington since then. I will be lead council during this hearing. Today we are representing the interests of our client, Mr. Lawrence Romeo Lipshitz, who is the only other living relative of the late David Xavier Lipshitz.”

Larry Lipshitz looked startled when Brackett identified him for the court by clapping a hand heavily on his shoulder. He looked around, giving a confused half-smile to the judge, to his cousin Blair, and to his wife, who scowled sourly at him.

“Mr. Lipshitz has retained us,” Brackett continued. “Because he does not feel that, in good faith, he can sit by and see the hard-won estate of his beloved uncle dissipated on a whim. Now let me assure the court that we don’t think Mr. Sandburg is a bad person. Indeed, in his delusional state, he’s trying to be the best possible person he can. But his sanity appears to be slipping, and we question his competence to manage his own affairs, let alone an important estate. It’s unfortunate, of course; however, we have no choice but to prove beyond any reasonable doubt that Mr. Sandburg is incapable of managing his uncle’s bequest and should, for his own good, be institutionalized until such time as his behaviour is deemed rational.” Brackett turned and faced the packed courtroom. “It’s not that we _want_ to see poor Mr. Sandburg locked away. It’s not a punishment like a prison term. It’s just for his own good. In everyone’s best interests.” Brackett spread his hands wide, as if helpless, being forced to do something he really didn’t want to.

Jim rolled his eyes. Joel placed a hand on Jim’s arm, but Jim wasn’t going anywhere.

Brackett took a few steps to the right; he straightened his tie to the click of a dozen digital cameras.

“There’s to be no photography in the courtroom,” the judge ordered. Throughout the room, impressive digital cameras were packed away. Jim knew from experience that this was all for show and that silent miniature cameras concealed in purses, glasses cases, even within eye-glasses themselves, were being called into service. He hated his profession anew and regretted again having been forced to leave law-enforcement.

“You may continue, Mr. Brackett.”

“I was personally acquainted with the late Mr. Lipshitz, having represented him legally for more than a decade. I think I can safely say that over the years of our association, David and I became friends as well as solicitor and client.” He paused theatrically, having allowed a husky note of grief to creep into his voice. “And I know for a fact, that David Lipshitz did not work himself into an early grave so that this young hippie punk could blow all his hard-earned money on some boondoggle scheme!”

The judge banged her gavel. “Order. Mr. Brackett, you are out of order.”

Brackett dabbed at the corner of his eye with a handkerchief. Jim squinted and cranked up his sense of sight; there were no tears in Brackett’s eyes. And who the hell used a handkerchief these days?

“You’re right, Your Honour. I allowed my emotions to affect my words. It won’t happen again. If it please the court, would you please strike it from the official record?” The judge nodded and directed the court reporter accordingly. “Thank you, Your Honour.”

“This stinks,” Joel whispered to Jim. “The whole thing sounds fake, rehearsed.”

Jim nodded. When did the legal system become about which lawyer was the better showman?

Brackett paused and waited. Finally cluing in, Oliver pushed a pile of newspaper clippings in Brackett’s direction. “I have before me a series of articles written by a journalist who was eyewitness to Mr. Sandburg’s bizarre conduct since arriving in Cascade to claim his inheritance.”

Jim hung his head and yanked in his senses. He’d been subpoenaed, but still hoped he wouldn’t be called upon.

“In these articles, written by the renowned journalist and former detective of the year, James Joseph ‘J.J.’ Ellison, you can read about Mr. Sandburg’s odd and irresponsible behaviour. In fact, as attorney for the estate, I was first hand witness to some of this behaviour myself. If it please the court, I’d like to call on myself to testify.”

“This isn’t a criminal case, Mr. Brackett, so we have some leeway here.” She hesitated a moment. “Okay. I’ll allow it.” She nodded firmly. “You’re already under oath so just say your piece.”

“Thank you, Your Honour. Personally, I first met Mr. Sandburg on April 28th, when Simon Banks and I drove all the way to Clayton Falls to advise Mr. Sandburg in person of his inheritance. His reactions, even then, were strange. He wasn’t interested in the money at all, and read a book while we tried to work out the details. Can you imagine being told you’d inherited $20 million and not registering some sort of emotion?”

There was a general buzz about the room, murmurs of “If it were me…” and “That _is_ weird!”

Brackett waited for the room to fall silent again before continuing. “We suggested he come to Cascade as soon as possible. He grew angry and demanded we take him that night. Oddly, he had a suitcase already packed and ready, as if he might have to leave town suddenly.” Brackett trailed off, looking confused, as if he were wondering why anyone would feel they needed to be so prepared.

“It didn’t go down like that.” Simon’s mutterings were audible enough that the judge threw him a sharp look.

“So imagine, if you will,” Brackett carried on. “Two men you’ve never met before come to your door saying, ‘You’ve inherited a fortune. We’ll be going now.’ Would you go with them? Would you just take off from your job as a high school science teacher without a word, leaving your colleagues in the lurch, abandoning your students? Now I can’t speak for anyone but myself, but I think I would have wanted to see a little more identification than a couple of business cards. How many of you would do that? Most of us won’t even open an email that says, ‘You’ve won $20 million,’ let alone quit ours jobs, abandon our responsibilities, and head to the big city with strangers.”

There was a murmur of consensus among the crowd. The judge raised her gavel to strike, but the room quieted down under just the threat.

“So I say, leaving off being a witness and moving back into my role as lawyer, that this man, Blair Sandburg is like a child. Anyone could lead him down the garden path, and I’m afraid that’s what’s happened. It’s a sad story, really, of innocence and disability being manipulated for greed and gain.”

Jim couldn’t imagine where Brackett was going with this. The surreal re-telling of events didn’t have even a passing connection with the brilliant and resourceful man he’d come to… be friends with.

“A former employee of Cascade Industries—one Fernando Capobianco.” Brackett pointed accusingly at Nandy at the back of the room. “Capobianco is an unemployed assembly line worker who broke into David Lipshitz’s home and threatened Blair Sandburg with a gun and a sob story. Next thing you know, Sandburg has added this guy to his payroll and is handing out huge sums of money to all Capobianco’s buddies. And, if allowed to continue, he intends to give them David Lipshitz’ entire fortune and more!”

The conversations within the courtroom became so loud that the bailiff was forced to call for order.

“And where were you at this time, Mr. Brackett?” the judge asked. “Where were the people who were to protect Mr. Sandburg?”

“Interesting you should ask that, Your Honour. Mr. Sandburg refused to engage my services or that of any legal counsel. I’m surprised to see Ms. Sanchez with him today. Apparently, Mr. Sandburg feels that with $20 million comes with no responsibilities, no attention to detail. Why at one point, I retained a respected off-duty policeman to accompany him to his destinations for his own protection, but he tricked the man and locked him into a closet.”

There was a gasp from the crowd.

“The only person whom Sandburg allowed to stay near him was Simon Banks, who, apparently, has become so enamoured of Mr. Sandburg’s money, or, perhaps of Mr. Sandburg himself…” Brackett paused, to imply some sort of scandal. Simon couldn’t have looked angrier if he tried. Blair just slumped in his seat. “That Mr. Banks has thrown his weight behind the absurd scheme to give away all the money.”

“I take it you will not be calling on Mr. Banks to testify then.”

“Now hold on a minute!” Simon leapt to his feet in protest.

“Mr. Banks, I presume,” the Judge said dryly, pushing her glasses up her nose.

“Uh, yes, Your Honour. Simon Banks, here. Now I want you to know—”

“Mr. Banks? I’m not sure who you are or how you’re connected with this case, but I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt and assume that you are competent enough to sit quietly. Or else you will be escorted from the room. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Your Honour.” Simon sank into his seat with air of defeat.

“Now who’s going to speak for Blair?” Joel mumbled. Jim began to change his mind about not being called upon.

The judge turned back to Brackett, who had stood quietly. He looked smug. Jim figured he’d set the whole thing up so that Blair’s side would look bad. He’d already discredited Blair, Simon and this Capobianco guy. Jim was a little leery of the factory worker himself. Brackett had said he’d pulled a gun on Blair although Jim had heard it hadn’t been loaded.

“Ms. Sanchez, do you wish to cross-examine Mr. Brackett in his role as witness.”

Sanchez conferred with Blair for a moment. The discussion appeared heated.

“Ms. Sanchez. We’re on the clock here,” the judge prodded.

Sanchez made one last comment to Blair who sat back with his arms folded, shaking his head. Sanchez sighed. “Apparently, we do not at this time, Your Honour.”

“Fine. Mr. Brackett, your next witness.”

“If the Court pleases, I shall call upon Dr. Emil Von Holler, if he will be good enough to give us his expert medical opinion. Dr. Von Holler is an eminent psychiatrist employed by Cascade General. Dr. Von Holler?”

The distinguished-looking man who was seated behind the complainant’s table rose and walked to the front of the room.

“Now, Dr. Von Holler,” Brackett began. “Will you kindly tell the court your opinion on this case?”

“I had the opportunity to interview Mr. Sandburg on two occasions. After careful consideration, I have concluded that this is a severe case of manic depression. I suspect Assperger’s syndrome and possibly obsessive compulsiveness, as well, as evidenced by his inability to leave his reading to give his attention to the new information that he’d inherited $20 million. In cases of this kind, patients sometimes go on for years before being detected.”

“Why does it take so long, Doctor?” Brackett led.

“It takes so long to detect them because their mood changes so often and so quickly. One day he’s dancing in the streets feeding doughnuts to horses, and the next day, despondent, practically catatonic, as you see before you now. I think I can explain it better with a chart.”

One of Brackett’s paralegals jumped up with a large, cardboard-backed chart, holding it up where the judge could see it, then turning it to face the crowd. Jim saw a straight black line running across the paper, from left to right; a few calibration marks along each axis.

“When the subject’s mood is below this line,” Dr. Von Holler continued, pointing at the centre line, “they are extremely depressed, melancholy, impossible to live with, and often become violent.” He took a red marker and placed the tip on the bottom left-hand corner. “From this mood the manic depressive might gradually change until they reach this state.” He moved the marker upwards, drawing a line almost straight up the paper, stopping when it hit the centre line. “Here is lucidity. Here they are perfectly normal. As normal as you or I, assuming, of course, that we are normal.” He waited, probably for laughter that didn’t come.

He continued his line to the top of the paper. “Then, the mood changes again, until they reach this state, a state of highest exaltation. Here everything is fine. Here the world is beautiful. Here they are so elated, they would give you the shirt off their backs!” He arced the line and drew it downwards again, then up, then down, until he had a series of waves across the paper, intersected by the middle line. “Up. Down. Up. Down. It’s an emotional roller coaster. Troubling for us, and devastating for the sufferer.” He capped his pen, resignation in his stance. He, like Brackett had earlier, conveyed that he was just doing what was best for Blair. Jim thought he’d puke.

“Dr. Von Holler, how would you say that applied to Mr. Sandburg’s case?” Brackett asked.

“The symptoms are obvious.” He pointed to the top line. “When he is here, on top of the wave, he feels nothing but kindliness and warmth toward his fellow man. He wants them around him. He experiences high elation, such as when he chases fire engines, or sets up endowments, or plans to reopen that factory. He feels an intense desire to help humanity. This is contrasted with his other moods—when he humiliates his peers in public, when he sneaks out of a party he threw, as he sits here today,” Von Holler gestured at Blair who slumped in his seat, clearly distressed. “He sits over there, almost catatonic. Yes, I’m so sorry to say, this man needs to be not only institutionalized, but heavily medicated before he does damage to himself or someone else.”

“Thank you, Doctor; you have been most helpful.

“Ms. Sanchez. Any questions for Dr. Von Holler?”

“Yes, Your Honour. Just a few.”

“Well, go ahead. Ask your questions, then.”

Blair could be seen to pat Sanchez’s arm as she rose and walked toward the witness stand. “Dr. Von Holler, you said you…” she checked her notes, clearly quoting back his own words to him. “‘Had the opportunity to interview Mr. Sandburg on two occasions.’ Is that right?”

“Why, yes. That’s what I said, isn’t it?” He looked at her patronizingly.

“How much time would you say that was, cumulatively?”

Von Holler looked a little uncomfortable. “Well, now, I’m a very busy man. It’s a very busy hospital and what with holidays and budget cuts, well, I…”

“Can we get a number, please, Doctor? An estimate, of course.”

“Let’s see. I’d have to check my files, but I think I probably saw him an appropriate length of time, given the circumstances.”

“Just answer the question, please.”

Von Holler looked down, stroking his goatee and apparently counting. “About 20 minutes, I believe.”

“Twenty minutes each time you saw him for a total of 40 minutes?”

“No. Twenty minutes in total. Maybe 15 the first time and five the second, just to confirm my diagnosis.”

The courtroom was awash in whispered conversations. The judge looked very concerned; the Bracketts shuffled papers and looked at each other accusingly.

“Twenty minutes, Dr. Von Holler. And during those 20 minutes, did Mr. Sandburg act in any irrational ways?”

“Well, not exactly, although he was rather focused on some books he had with him. In fact, he paid so little attention to me that I threatened to have them confiscated! And then…”

“And then, Doctor?”

“He took over the interview! He began to ask the questions. It was obvious that he’d had prior counselling, and he even admitted to it. Plus he’d taken a minor in psychology while at university. These kind of informed patients are hardest to diagnose as they tend to ‘perform’ for their doctors.”

“I see.” Sanchez paced the front of the room. “So even though Mr. Sandburg falls into the category of those patients who are hardest to diagnose, you still feel that you only needed 20 minutes to do so. Is that right?”

“Well, there are all his aberrant behaviours.”

“Aberrant behaviours such as?”

“Why all the things he’d done that were in the paper!”

“So, let me make sure I understand this. Blair Sandburg exhibited no ‘aberrant behaviours’ that you were first-hand witness to. You based your findings strictly on what you read in the newspapers. Is that right?”

“And he’d been under been under the care of a psychiatrist in the past.”

“Oh, so seeing a psychiatrist _makes_ you crazy. Is that what you’re saying, Doctor?”

The courtroom laughed. Even the judge looked mildly amused.

“No, wait. I…”

“I’m sorry, Doctor. But I doubt that Sigmund Freud himself could diagnose anyone in 20 minutes. I’d like to ask the court to strike the doctor’s testimony from the record.”

“I object!” Three Bracketts plus Oliver were all on their feet.

“Thank you, gentlemen. A single objection will suffice. I tend to agree with Ms. Sanchez. I know I certainly wouldn’t want to be judged sane or insane based on a 20-minute assessment plus what the newspapers wrote about me. I was something of a radical during my college years in the 60s. The newspapers have a way of skewing things, don’t they, Joel?”

She threw her gaze across the courtroom at Jim’s seatmate. Joel was blushing furiously. “Uh, hi, May.” _Well, well_ , thought Jim. _Cascade is more of a small town than I ever thought._ It occurred to him that his dad golfed with Gus Ventriss. And hadn’t his grandparents been friends with a family named Lipshitz at one time?

The judge’s voice brought Jim out of his reverie. “The testimony of Dr. Von Holler, while fascinating, is disallowed. Thank you, Ms. Sanchez. Doctor Von Holler, you may be seated.”

Von Holler returned to his seat only long enough to gather his belongings. Face a disturbing shade of burgundy, he stalked silently from the courtroom. Brackett’s minion, who had been acting as a flip-chart stand, slunk back to his seat as well, scrunching the useless chart under his chair and out of sight.

“Mr. Brackett. Please approach the bench. You, too, Ms. Sanchez.” When the lawyers stood before her, she glared at both of them. “Mr. Brackett, were you aware of how sketchy Dr. Von Holler’s diagnosis was?” Before Brackett could answer, she continued. “Do your homework from now on, Lee. You’ve got a worthy opponent here, and she deserves better than that. As does Mr. Sandburg and Mr. Lipshitz. You’ll get no easy win here, today. You may go back to your seats.”

Jim nearly fisted the air. It was obvious from the use of Brackett’s first name that he and the judge were acquainted, maybe had worked together at some point, or attended the same social events, but Jim knew from his years as a cop and later working the crime beat that Judge Perlman was considered by all to be above reproach. Her integrity was her badge of honour, and Jim felt that if nothing else, Blair would get a fair hearing. He could only hope that Sanchez was up to the challenge. Brackett was a hell of a lawyer and not one who held integrity in particularly high regard.

There was considerable shuffling and hasty re-strategizing at the complainant’s table. Finally, Brackett rose, buttoning his expensive suit coat. “It’s a shame that the doctor’s expert testimony has been disallowed. I’d like to respectfully remind the court that just because Dr. Von Holler undermined his own diagnosis, it does not rule out the possibility of said diagnosis. Mr. Sandburg’s competency is still the subject of this hearing. I, myself,” Brackett continued. “Felt unable to keep pace with Mr. Sandburg’s mental quirks and was constantly fearful of being involved in his questionable schemes. I must admit that, when my firm finally realized we would not be retained as council to the estate, we were concerned, but not a little relieved as well. The last time I had contact with Mr. Sandburg was the morning after he tied up traffic for an hour feeding doughnuts to a poor horse. And by his own statement was waiting for said horse to ask for a cup of coffee.”

The audience laughed aloud at this, recalling the first newspaper article.

“We have photographs to substantiate that little episode and other photographs which show Mr. Sandburg interfering with firefighters at a dangerous and costly fire. This scarcely sounds like the actions of a man to whom the disposition of $20 million may safely be entrusted. The writer of these articles, a man whose intelligence and veracity in the newspaper world is unquestioned, held Blair Sandburg in such contempt that he felt compelled to give the man a belittling nickname. Like Charles Manson, Jimmy Jones and so many other cult leaders before him, Blair Sandburg’s mental instability makes him both charismatic and messianic. He has an attractive and persuasive manner that allows him to lead otherwise right-thinking people down his own personal garden path. It was this kind of nonsense that led Mr. Ellison to aptly name him ‘The Guide’.”

Again the audience tittered. Jim buried his face in his hands, groaning at his part in bringing about this horrendous hearing.

“Your Honour, at this time, we would like to call James Joseph Ellison to the witness stand.”

There was a mild stir, as all waited expectantly for Jim to appear.

“Mr. Ellison, please.”

Jim, gaze on Blair, slowly walked to the stand.

Blair averted his face, refusing to look at Jim.

Jim continued to stare at Blair as he was sworn in.

“Raise your right hand, please.”

As the swearing in concluded, Brackett stepped up to question Jim.

“Mr. Ellison, are you employed by _The Cascade Times?”_

“No!” Jim winced at his own vehemence. He’d do Blair no good if he appeared irrational.

Brackett’s eyes widened in surprise. “You are under oath, Mr. Ellison. I ask you again, are you employed by _The Cascade Times?”_

“No, I am not. I resigned this week.”

Brackett rolled his eyes. “Well, prior to that time, _were_ you employed by _The Cascade Times?”_

“Yes.”

“When you were employed by _The Times,_ were you given an assignment to follow the activities of Blair Sandburg?”

“Yes.”

“Did you subsequently write a series of articles about him?”

“Yes! But I—”

Brackett silenced Jim by holding the clippings high, so everyone in the courtroom could see them. “Are these the articles?”

“Yes! But it wasn’t like—”

“Were you present when all these things took place?

“Yes! Listen, you can’t—”

“Are they true?”

“No! None of it. It’s been—”

“But they did take place?”

“They’re slanted. Skewed. Just to make him look silly!”

“But you saw them happen?”

“Yes, but I—” Brackett interrupted Jim one too many times, and he lost his brittle hold on his temper. “Stop cutting me off, Brackett, or so help me—” Jim silenced himself, then, knowing he shouldn’t finish that threat before witnesses. Not without planning a really good alibi first. He turned to the judge. “What the hell kind of hearing is this? What are you trying to do, persecute the man?” He sat back down heavily, unaware he’d risen.

“Mr. Ellison, another outburst like that, and I shall hold you in contempt! We’re not interested in your opinion of the merits of this case. You’re here to testify. Now stay in your seat and answer the questions!” She nodded at Brackett. “Proceed.”

Brackett beamed victoriously, pushing his advantage, firing questions at Jim again. “So, Mr. Ellison, were you with Mr. Sandburg the evening that he chased a fire engine and deliberately crossed the police lines, yelling at firemen to listen to his ‘expertise’, and trying to wrest control of the fire crew from the fire chief himself?”

“That’s not what—”

“Just answer the question.”

“It’s not.”

“Yes or no, Mr. Ellison.”

“No. Yes. I… I won’t have any more of my words twisted against me. Not anymore. That’s what’s got Blair in trouble in the first place—people twisting his words and actions. Then the paper twisting mine. And now you. If I’m not allowed to say what I mean, then it’s best I say nothing at all.”

“That’s fine then, Mr. Ellison. We don’t need anything further from you. That’s all.”

Jim stood and protested, practically yelling, “No, that is not all! If you’d just let me explain—”

“That’s all, Mr. Ellison. That’s all. Bailiff!”

A bailiff took Jim by the arm. “Come on, now. Come on!”

Brackett ignored Jim’s ongoing outburst, turning to Judge Perlman, “Your Honour, I’d like to submit these articles as evidence.”

Jim struggled away from the bailiff, aware that if he were too violent, he’d be locked up where he couldn’t do any good for Blair, not that he had so far, but he had to keep trying. “Let go of me!” he shouted, jerking his arm free.

“Mr. Ellison, please!” the judge ordered.

“I’ve got a right to be heard! My opinion is as good as that quack psychiatrist. Better. I know Blair better than he did.” Jim did his best to reign in his temper; it wouldn’t help anyone if he lost it. “It’s obviously a frame-up. They’re trying to railroad this man for the money they can get out of him!”

Brackett protested. “Your Honour, this is preposterous!”

The judge waved him down with a dismissive gesture of her hand.

“Certainly I wrote those articles. I was going to get a raise, and a month’s vacation! Ventriss put a spin on them. But I stopped writing them when I found out what Blair was all about! When I realized how real he was.” Jim spoke directly to the judge, as if they were the only two people on earth. “Blair could never fit in with our phoney society because he’s honest and sincere and good. If that man is crazy, Your Honour, the rest of us belong in straight-jackets.”

Brackett was livid. He screamed at the judge, “Your Honour, what he was saying has no bearing on the case! I object.”

Screaming at Judge Perlman was the best thing Brackett could have done… for Blair. “Mr. Brackett, you will get a hold of yourself. I can understand why these people are misbehaving—they’re emotionally involved in the case; but you, you’re here in your professional capacity. Unless there’s some level of emotional involvement—say a vendetta against Mr. Sandburg, or an unnatural interest in managing his money.” Brackett went pale, making feeble protests. The judge continued, “Now, you asked that this man’s articles be admitted as evidence. You can’t now say his opinion has no bearing on the case. Let him speak.”

Jim returned to the front of the room and reassumed the stand. He looked over at Blair. Blair stared back at him as if he’d never seen him before.

Jim took a deep breath, now that he was finally allowed to speak, he wasn’t sure what to say, what he could possibly say to express what Blair Sandburg was truly all about. “Your Honour, if you just got to know Blair, to spend time with him and come to respect and like him as I do, you’d know what a fine and honourable person he is. He doesn’t deserve any of this. If anyone’s to blame here, it’s me. I mislead and deceived him—deceived all of Cascade with those twisted articles that made him look crazy. He’s not crazy, Your Honour. He’s… he’s… he’s bright and beautiful and wonderful. I—”

Brackett jumped up. “Your Honour, this is absurd. Mr. Ellison’s acting like they’re in love or something.” He sneered, obviously grasping at straws to paint Jim and Blair in a bad light.

 _Time to exit the closet,_ Jim thought. He raised his chin, “What’s that got to do with anything?”

Brackett paused, no doubt realizing he had stumbled on something worth pursuing. “Well, you are in love with him, aren’t you?”

“What’s that got to do with anything?” Jim repeated.

Brackett pushed further. “You are, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I am. And last time I checked the constitution, a person couldn’t be locked up for an alternate sexual orientation. So, I say again, how is my being in love with Blair Sandburg relevant to this case? And, by the way, although we’ve just established beyond a reasonable doubt that I’m in love with Blair, I sincerely doubt he’s got anything but contempt for me, given what I’ve done to him.” Jim stared at Brackett defiantly, deliberately avoiding seeing Blair even in the most peripheral of glances.

Brackett turned to the judge. “Your Honour, his testimony is of no value. Why shouldn’t he defend him? It’s a tribute to American gay pride. I’m not saying that nobody likes the boy. I’m fond of him myself, in a fatherly and appropriate way.” He adjusted his jacket. “But that doesn’t mean to say—”

In the middle of his speech, Joel appeared at his elbow. “When Mr. Brackett here gets through, May… I mean, Your Honour, I’d like to verify what Jim said about the articles. I’m his editor. When he quit his job, he told me what a terrific and caring person Blair Sandburg is. I saw the articles Jim wrote before our boss, Gus Ventriss over there, got hold of them and re-wrote them to make Sandburg look like a fool. Sold a lot of papers, but looks like they might just have ruined Sandburg’s life. Jim’s too, it’s starting to look like.”

“If you have anything to say, Joel, wait to be called upon and take the stand!”

“I’ve already said it. I just thought I’d like to get my two cents in.”

Simon rose as well. “Your Honour. I’ve got a couple of cents I’d like to put in—”

“Sit down, Mr. Banks! I’ve already told you.”

“I’ve been around this man ever since he came to Cascade—”

The judge pounded her gavel, interrupting Simon. “Sit down! There will be no further interruptions.”

When quiet returned, Judge Perlman spoke, “In the interest of Mr. Sandburg, I have tolerated a great deal of informality, but if there is one more outburst, I will clear this courtroom. Is that clear?” Her gaze flitted sharply about the courtroom, coming to rest on Simon, then Joel. There were mumbled assents from these men.

“Ms. Sanchez. Do you wish to question Mr. Ellison?”

Jim watched Blair confer with his friends, feeling very much a pariah. He had so many regrets.

There appeared to be some dissension, but eventually, Sanchez rose. “No questions, your honour. We feel Mr. Ellison has been heard from more than enough.”

“The witness is dismissed then. And Mr. Ellison? You’ve had your day in court. No more outbursts, please. This is your final warning. I’m instructing the bailiff to arrest you for contempt the next time you say or do anything I don’t directly ask of you.”

The judge looked at her bailiff, who nodded, then at Jim.

“Yes, Your Honour,” he said. He was so embarrassed he wanted to leave—not just the courtroom, but Cascade altogether. Peru had never looked better. He sat down again, though, needing to be there, to see what happened next, to see Blair even if for the last time ever.

“Allow me to remind you and everyone else here today that this is just a hearing. It’s not a murder trial, although a man’s future _is_ at stake. We’ve had enough courtroom theatrics for a prime time TV show. Could we please move this along in a civilized manner? Mr. Brackett, how many more witnesses do you have?”

“None, Your Honour. My client has instructed me, against my better judgement, to dispense with any witnesses for the defence. So, with your permission, I’d like to give closing arguments.”

“Thank God. You may proceed.”

Brackett paced in front of the judge for a moment, then began what seemed to Jim to be a pretty theatrical speech, in spite of the judge’s directive. “We’re not concerned with Mr. Sandburg’s little antics: horses will survive a few doughnuts, the theatre company will survive being made profitable, and he’s not the first person to sneak out of his own party. These things don’t matter. Even his involvement with the fire department is not something that concerns my client. What does concern us though, is the far-reaching precedent Blair Sandburg could be setting with his plan to reopen Cascade Industries.”

“Now I was involved with Mr. Lipshitz’s decision to close the factory and move the manufacturing offshore. By reopening the plant, especially with all these generous reimbursements and bonuses Mr. Sandburg is offering, he sets a terrible and dangerous precedent. Firstly,…” Brackett held up his index finger. “He puts hundreds of workers out of work in the countries where our goods are currently made. I know, I know. That’s not our concern, but consider this, if you will. We have the social assistance programs in place here in the good old US of A to help workers who have been laid off. They can collect unemployment benefits, enrol in subsidized re-training programs, receive grants to return to school, or low-interest relocation loans. In many third-world countries, unemployment means starving to death—not just for the worker, but for their entire extended family. We’ve all seen horrific pictures of children starving to death in the streets. Do we really want to contribute to this?”

Murmurs rippled the courtroom; Jim saw heads nodding here and there.

“Secondly,” Brackett held two fingers aloft. “The goods that will be manufactured here in Cascade will not be able to compete financially in the marketplace. That labour here was pricing the goods too high to sell was the reason David Lipshitz closed the factory and went offshore in the first place. Nothing’s changed in the few short years since then, so the items they make here will go unsold, and the plant will end up closed again. A waste of everyone’s time and effort, only this time, Mr. Sandburg and anyone unlucky enough to have invested with him, will have poured so much money into the start-up costs and product subsidies that he won’t have the money to take the plant offshore again. So everybody loses. Sure, those workers who were unemployed from the first closing will have made a big cash grab, but by the time they’ve paid off debts and spent money on their pastimes of choice, there’ll be nothing left there either.”

The wealthy people in the room nodded, understanding Brackett’s wording “pastimes of choice” to mean liquor, lottery tickets, a bevy of illegitimate children, and drugs. Nandy and the few other blue-collar workers in the room were incensed, but held their peace for Blair’s sake.

“Thirdly,” Brackett brandished three fingers in the air, “why should we reward bad behaviour? When Cascade Industries closed five years ago, many of its brighter and more motivated workers went out and found other jobs. Some, finding nothing in Cascade, moved to other cities and towns. Some took advantage of the retraining programs I mentioned a minute ago and actually improved their lot in life; they were given lemons, and they made lemonade.” He chuckled at his own joke. No one else did.

“But many—over half of the former workers—did nothing. For five years they have sat around collecting unemployment or welfare or charity handouts instead of getting up and going to work every day like you and I do. They claim they can’t find jobs, but how often do you see ‘help wanted’ signs in the windows of local businesses? They just don’t want to work, and now Blair Sandburg is going to take the hard-earned money of his uncle and give it to these people. It’s tragically ironic, really, that David Lipshitz started from nothing and built his financial empire on nothing but hard work. Then his nephew comes along, inherits it all, having done nothing to earn it, and is prepared to give it all away to a bunch of parasites!”

Brackett stopped there, breathing hard. The courtroom was abuzz with opinions. Nandy and his friends were outraged. The bailiff had to restrain Thelma Aruba, who was shouting at anyone who would listen that she’d worked every day of her life.

It seemed to Jim that the unruly protests of those accused only made them look worse in the eyes of the privileged.

Once the room was quiet, Brackett summarized. “In these times, with our country suffering from many economic ailments and political divisions, and endangered by an undercurrent of social unrest, the promulgation of such a weird, fantastic and impractical plan as contemplated by the defendant is capable of fomenting a disturbance from which the country may not soon recover. It is our duty to stop it! Our government is fully aware of its difficulties and can pull itself out of its economic rut without the assistance of Mr. Sandburg, or any other well-meaning…” Brackett searched for the right word. “Fool,” he said at last. “The prosecution rests.”

**Chapter 31.     Clearing the Heir**  
 ****

Suddenly a voice rose from Blair’s side of the courtroom, “A fool and his money.” A woman’s voice, strong and commanding. Every head in the room swung toward it.

“What’s that?” the judge asked, searching the room for the speaker.

“A fool, Your Honour,” Beverly Sanchez repeated, rising from her seat, “and his money are soon parted.”

“And this sage pronouncement is relative to these proceedings how?” Judge Perlman asked, clearly at the end of her patience.

“I think we’re guilty of false logic, Your Honour. Logic being the basis for jurisprudence, which is the basis of the law.”

“Thank you for Law School 101, Ms Sanchez. Shall I assume you’ve begun your closing arguments?”

“Yes, Your Honour. I’d just like to say a few words. I won’t take long. And after all, a man’s future is at stake here.”

“Proceed. Just, please, for God’s sake, be relevant!”

“Thank you, Your Honour. I began by citing the old saw, ‘A fool and his money are soon parted’; but as I said, I think we’re guilty of faulty logic. We’re assuming since A equals B, then B must equal A, but in this case it doesn’t.”

There was a fair amount of murmuring in the court, even a couple of calls for explanation.

“Okay, bear with me. All dogs are animals, right?” Nodding heads all over the courtroom. “Therefore, all animals are dogs, yes?”

The mutters of “I get it” were just about equal to the “huh?”s in the audience. Sanchez continued. “So, if a fool and his money are soon parted, then someone who’s giving away money must be a fool, right?” Now the muttering had an unsure quality to it. Jim cranked his hearing and found most people were just confused.

“Your Honour, I’d like to ask a few people in the room a question. May I have the latitude?”

The judge just rolled her eyes. “Why not? I’ve granted so much latitude here today I’m surprised we’re not all suffering from oxygen deprivation.” There were snorts and chuckles at that. “You may proceed, Ms. Sanchez.”

“Thank you again. I’d like to start by asking _you_ a question, if I may. Do you, Judge Perlman, make sizable contributions to charity?”

The judge sputtered, looking at Sanchez like her sanity was in question. “That’s personal, Ms. Sanchez.”

“Not really, Your Honour.” She held up a brochure. “While I was waiting outside Mr. Sandburg’s hospital room, I picked up this brochure. It says here that The May Perlman Wing of Cascade General will be breaking ground shortly. I think it’s tremendous of you to have endowed an entire wing. Exceedingly generous. I’d like to think that although you parted with the money, that you are no fool by any means.”

The judge looked like she couldn’t decide whether to be pissed or pleased. She, apparently, settled for blushing a deep scarlet. The room began clapping, and the bailiff called for order.

“I’d like to ask Mr. Gus Ventriss the same question. Mr. Ventriss, I understand you’re a huge supporter of the Greek community. New immigrants can get language classes and job training at your community centre, and the Greek Orthodox Church on Maple received all new stained-glass windows after the recent vandalism. Very commendable, sir. Your devotion to the community is praiseworthy indeed.”

Ventriss looked shocked and half-stood to acknowledge the applause from the courtroom. Jim was surprised; he hadn’t thought there was anything good about his ex-boss. Maybe there was even something good to be said about—

“Lee Brackett. Do you give to charity?”

“That’s none of your or anybody else’s business, Ms. Sanchez. What my family does with our…”

A tiny voice tried to rise above the noise of the crowded courtroom. A blonde woman rose to her feet, clutching her purse nervously, head down. “Breast cancer,” she mumbled.

Brackett glared at her, ordering, “Sit down, Rhonda. That’s enough!”

“No, Mr. Brackett. You should get credit for the one good thing you’ve done.”

“Please address the court, Ms….”

“Rhonda Cross, ma’am. Uh, Your Honour. I’m Lee Brackett’s administrative assistant.” She almost curtsied. The judge made hurry-up motions at her. “Well, if it’ll help Mr. Sandburg there stay out of the insane asylum, I think you should know that Mr. Brackett and his brothers lost their mother to breast cancer several years ago. Now every clinic and hospital in town has a mammogram machine from them. When you’re getting a mammogram, you should thank Brackett, Brackett, Brackett and Oliver. He’s their cousin,” she added, ducking her head.

The applause started out light this time, but grew quickly. Jim yanked down his hearing and clapped along with the rest of them.

“Now, I’d like to tell you how I met Mr. Sandburg. Yes, Your Honour, I’m wrapping up.” Beverly smiled at the judge who leaned heavily on her elbows, looking resigned at having pretty much lost control of the proceedings. “I was representing an unemployed single mother, on a _pro bono_ case who claimed to have had a child by the late David Lipshitz.”

The crowd reacted with sounds of shock.

“I checked out her story, and the society pages at the time, about five years ago, did feature pictures of Mr. Lipshitz squiring my client to many events. I believed the allegation and, apparently, so did my client. She wasn’t asking for much, just enough to put her son through a good private school and pay for his teeth to be straightened. It wasn’t until the DNA test came back last week that we were sure that Mr. Lipshitz was not the father. But, even though the suit proved false, Mr. Sandburg set up a trust fund for this child _and his half sister_ to be able to attend the best schools and the best orthodontists in Cascade. And Mr. Sandburg hired my client to help with the re-instatement of the Cascade Industries workers with a promise of a clerical job once the plant was up and running again.”

A smattering of clapping broke out, but died once Sanchez held up her hand for silence.

“He also endowed a scholarship at Rainier, although it did have a couple of odd caveats attached. The first was that a Mr. Tom Washington, currently employed at the Rainier University Alumni Centre as a waiter, be the first recipient of the bursary which would cover his entire tuition and living expenses for as long as he chose to remain in school, provided he pursue a degree in anthropology. And the second, that Professor Eli Stoddard never be allowed to sit on the committee that awards the annual bursaries.”

The room buzzed. A distinguished-looking man at the back of the room rose. “I deserved that,” he said. “In my lust to further my career, I have behaved unforgivably toward Blair and Tom and several other students. I shall speak to Chancellor Edwards on Monday and make arrangements for restitution.” He turned and headed toward the door, turning back to the crowd once he reached it. “I do make generous donations to the Heart and Stroke Society.” Silence hung over the courtroom. If he’d been expecting applause, Jim thought, he was sorely disappointed. Stoddard’s shoulders slumped as he left the room.

“You’re all familiar with Blair’s plan for re-opening Cascade Industries. Now that’s crazy, isn’t it?” Beverly’s eyes darted around the room, daring anyone to agree with her. “That’s really the entire basis for this competency hearing today, isn’t it?” There were nods about the room, especially on the bench where the judge seemed to think that maybe Sanchez was reaching her conclusion. “Isn’t this just insane? To bring jobs that have been farmed offshore back to American workers? To lower unemployment and give our local economy a boost? To help people who want to work do exactly that? Sounds crazy to me, Your Honour.” She made the twirling sign beside her head and crossed her eyes. “Yeah, sounds crazy to me.”

She turned to the judge’s bench. “Thank you, Your Honour.”

Judge Perlman leaned forward, “Mr. Sandburg, before the court arrives at a decision, isn’t there anything you wish to say?”

Blair rose to his feet. “Yes, Your Honour. I think I’d like to get in my two cents’ worth after all.”

The judge seemed surprised. “Take the stand.”

There was a general stir of excitement and whispering.

“Well, I don’t know where to begin. There’s been so many things said about me. Ever since I returned to Cascade, people—lawyers, the media, even my friends—have been telling me I’m a bit Looney Tunes. I guess I was starting to believe it. Hell, Doctor Von Heller there thinks I have Ass-wipes syndrome or something.”

“That’s Assberger’s Syndrome. And it’s Von Holler,” Oliver corrected. His cousins yanked him back into his seat.

“Whatever. So I thought I’d wait and see what other people said. I mean, how often do you have the chance to attend your own funeral?” He shrugged. “This was a lot like that.”

He shrugged again. “Actually, I was beginning to wonder myself if I was crazy—what do I know about handling huge sums of money? I’m an anthropologist and high school science teacher. I know how to dig up old civilizations and put on amateur musicals.” The courtroom tittered. “See, the thing is, I had to find out if I was delusional about my ability to manage my uncle’s money. He earned it. It was his, and he wanted to see good things done with it.”

“Well, Mr. Sandburg. Are you delusional?” Judge Perlman asked.

“No. Actually, I think I’m pretty sane. And a nice guy, too, which is a much rarer commodity than sanity. Anyway, I’m making my cousin Larry my co-director of the Cascade Industries project. That way, if one of us does get delusional, the other will be there to reign him in.”

The court buzzed with chatter. Blair waited for it to calm down again.

“About my reading so much. It seems like a lot of fuss has been made about that. If a man’s crazy just because he reads, then somebody better look into it. There are a lot of book readers running around loose. Maybe even among us today!” He mimed mock-horror. Even the judge laughed.

She was still smiling when she asked, “Mr. Sandburg, you haven’t yet touched upon a most important thing. This rather fantastic idea of yours to give away your entire fortune. It is, to say the least, very unusual.”

“Right. I’m just getting to that, Your Honour.”

“Suppose you were living in a small town and getting along fine, and suddenly somebody dropped $20 million in your lap. Suppose you discovered that all that money was messing up your life, was bringing a whole whack of vultures to your door, and making you lose faith in people. You’d be a little worried, wouldn’t you? I guess our good shrink there would say you were riding on those bottom waves.” He moved his hand up and down in imitation of the waves the Doctor had drawn on his chart. “So, is it crazy then, if you decide to get rid of something that is anathema to everything you are, everything you’d been raised to believe in?”

Lee Brackett jumped up, crying, “If this man is permitted to carry out his plan, repercussions will be felt that will rock the foundations of our entire governmental system!”

The judge pounded her gavel until he became silent. “Please, Mr. Brackett! Proceed, Mr. Sandburg.”

“Personally, I don’t know what Mr. Brackett’s raving about. From what I can see, no matter what system of government we have, there will always be problems with our social systems and not enough money to fix them. If all the rich people went around trying to help out, I think that would be a pretty good thing, don’t you, Judge Perlman, benefactor of the Cascade General? And you, Mr. Ventriss? I may not agree with the way you skew your newspaper articles…” There was general laughter among the audience. “…but I can’t argue with your community efforts. And you, Lee, benefactor of the women of Cascade. And so modest about it, too.”

Brackett blushed, but his brothers beamed, and Oliver touched a tissue to the corner of his eye.

“That’s all I’m trying to do with this money. Give it back to the community it came from.”

He paused, letting that settle in. At the back of the room, Thelma Aruba shouted, “Testify!”

“Right on, sistah!” Blair called back, waving. “Now I’m supposed to stick to the facts, so here’s a couple more. One.” He held up one finger, mimicking Brackett’s identical gesture during his closing arguments. “I’ve talked with my cousin Larry Lipshitz. He doesn’t care about the money at all. In fact, he thinks that if he were in control, he’d probably carry on with my ‘questionable’ scheme to re-open Cascade Industries.”

There were sounds of shock all over the courtroom, most especially at the complainant’s bench. “It’s actually his wife, Cassie Wells, who wants the money, and as far as I know, the whole reason Uncle David left me the money in the first place is that he wanted good done with it. He was sure that if Cassie got her hands on it, the only people to benefit would be Oscar de la Renta, Bill Blass, Hugo Boss, and the Channing Avenue Jewellery Emporium.”

Cassie started to speak, but her husband laid a hand on her arm and ensured she remain quiet.

“The other thing I want to tell you—and this goes directly to the heart of this competency case—just before the hearing started, Lee Brackett emailed my friend Simon Banks here…” Blair gestured toward Simon, who nodded, grinning hugely. “…saying they were willing to call the whole thing off if I made a settlement with him. Not with his clients, but directly with him. So we can only conclude,” Blair spread his hands widely, as if he were being forced to this conclusion, again mocking Brackett’s earlier actions. “That Lee wouldn’t think I was crazy if he got paid off.”

Brackett jumped to his feet, highly incensed. “It’s a lie! I never sent any such email. They’re easy to fake, you know.”

Simon remained seated and just raised his Blackberry in the air and waved it around a bit.

“We can certainly have a computer expert check out the IP addresses and protocols to verify this came from your Blackberry, Lee. But maybe you’d be good enough to just show it to the judge so she can see you sent it.”

The judge looked thoughtful. “Mr. Brackett. Will you surrender your Blackberry device to me now, or do I have to subpoena it?”

“But Your Honour—”

She held out her hand expectantly. “Thank you, Mr. Brackett.”

Brackett, grumblingly, handed his PDA to the judge, who flipped through it expertly. “Yup. The message is here in the ‘sent’ box. Do you still maintain you didn’t send this, Mr. Brackett?”

Brackett shrugged, an air of defeat settling over him. “No, Your Honour, but it’s common to try and save the court’s time and associated costs in cases like—”

“Anything else, Mr. Sandburg?” she asked Blair, cutting off Brackett as he had cut off previous witnesses.

“No, thank you, Your Honour. I’m sorry we’ve taken up your time here today. Now, I’d reimburse the City of Cascade for its time and trouble, if you’ll just tell me where to send the cheque.”

“Let’s not be too hasty, Mr. Sandburg.” All eyes were upon the judge, as she cleared her throat. “I have yet to make my ruling, and, although it’s not been very clear at times, I’m still in charge of this courtroom.” She managed to stare down the entire courtroom before continuing. “There has been a great deal of damaging testimony against you. Your behaviour, to say the least, has been most strange.”

An audible gasp was heard from audience.

“But in the opinion of the Court, you are not only sane, but you are the sanest man that ever walked into this courtroom. Case dismissed!”

The entire courtroom surged to its feet, shouting and clapping. The judge smiled warmly. Immediately, Blair was surrounded by a crowd of people who came running down the aisles.

One last time the judge called for order. When she had at least partial control she shouted over the remaining hubbub, “Call my office, Blair.” She made the universal gesture for a phone call, with thumb to ear and little finger to her lips. “I’m looking for some new investments and Cascade Industries sounds right up my alley.”

Blair laughed out lout and promised he would before he was pulled away and virtually swallowed by his crowd of celebrating well-wishers.

On the prosecution side of the isle, Rhonda and Larry Lipshitz moved to join those surrounding Blair. Brackett grabbed Rhonda by the arm. “You’re fired!” he screamed in her face. Larry Lipshitz placed his hand on Brackett’s wrist, squeezing firmly until Brackett let go of Rhonda’s arm. “Since we’re firing people, Brackett, you’re fired, too.” He dropped Brackett’s hand as if it were dirty and started toward Blair.

Before he could move though, Cassie stepped in front of him and slapped him hard. “I’m divorcing you, you bastard. We could have been rich. Rich!”

Larry grabbed her hand before she could strike him again. “You showed terrible judgement in marrying me in the first place, Cass. Imagine marrying a poor man for his money. One would almost think you once loved me.” He raised his free hand to his cheek where a clear imprint of her hand was reddening. Then he patted her cheek in a gentle echo of the slap and walked away.

“Rhonda!” Lee Brackett shouted. He was furious at the turn of events and needed someone to take it out on. Sure he’d fired her, but he did that all the time. He felt slightly mollified when she left the group of admirers flanking Sandburg and headed back to him.

“Oh, Lee, I forgot to give you this. It came in the mail today.” She handed him an official-looking envelope, then stood watching him open it.

“Oh, shit!” Brackett’s outburst was enough to attract the attention of his partners, who were packing up, waiting for the media to follow the winners so they could slink off and think of a new strategy to get at Sandburg’s money; after all, they’d misappropriated enough of it to think of it as their own.

“What is it, Lee?” Oliver asked.

Brackett held out the brief form letter bearing the Department of Internal Revenue logo. “We’re being audited. Monday.”

“Oh, shit!” echoed one Brackett.

“Oh, God!” moaned the other.

“I’m having a heart attack!” cried Oliver, but it was only wishful thinking.

~ ~ ~

Jim watched it all from his seat, where he remained, frozen. He didn’t bother trying to go to Blair. He knew after what he’d done, he wouldn’t be welcome. He watched as Blair, surrounded by friends and family, made slow progress toward the courtroom doors. Joel offered to stay with him, but he shook his head. He wanted to be alone: alone with his thoughts, alone with his guilt, alone with his hopeless love.

Jim remained in his seat, the last person in the room. Even the bailiff and other court staff had left through their private exits. He sighed heavily and began to pull himself together for the lonely trip back to his loft. His plane for Peru would leave in two days; he had a bunch of stuff to do between now and then, but couldn’t imagine himself having the energy to do it.

He listened to the noise of the crowd receding; he didn’t need Sentinel hearing for this. He was glad they were getting further and further away, leaving him behind, leaving him alone.

They were almost out of earshot when, suddenly, the crowd noises seemed to be coming toward him instead of heading away. He jacked up his hearing almost without thinking about it. From what he could hear, it sounded like the media was chasing Blair, wanting stories, pictures, pieces of him until there would be nothing left.

Jim dashed to the door to help Blair, just as Blair ran into the courtroom, slamming the doors shut behind him.

“Jim!” Blair shouted in surprise.

“I’m sorry, Blair. I’ll… I think you can get out that way.” He pointed to the staff exit behind the judge’s bench.

“I’ve got something to say to you before I do, Jim.” The mob behind him rattled the doors ineffectually. They shouted and pounded on them, demanding admittance. Jim could barely hear Blair’s racing heartbeat.

Blair strode over to Jim, fist raised, a determined look on his handsome face. Jim closed his eyes and braced himself for the blow, figuring he had it coming, hoping it might mitigate some of the guilt welling up inside him.

He heard the rush of air and felt the warmth of Blair’s fist as it approached… and descended to clip him ever so gently on the chin, more of a caress than a punch.

“Huh?” Jim opened his eyes, feeling confused.

Blair’s smirked at him, hands on hips. “Oh, c’mon, Ellison. I’m so not the kind of guy who goes around hitting people. Thought you said you knew me better than anyone.”

“Uh, Chief. Aren’t you mad at me?” Jim ran his hand over the place on his chin Blair’s fist had lightly brushed.

“Yeah, sure. But you can make it up to me, man.” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively, then leaned up to kiss Jim on the lips, kissing, nipping and licking the surprise off Jim’s face.

They kissed over and over again, their hearts beating a fast tattoo in counterpoint to the pounding on the courtroom door. At the sound of a throat clearing behind them, they pulled back. A housekeeper stood there looking at them disapprovingly. She shook her mop at them. “You go. I clean, now. Here, here.” She pointed to a third exit neither man had noticed before. “Go here. No be trouble.”

“C’mon, Ellison. Let’s go see what trouble we can get into in Peru.”

Jim couldn’t believe he’d been given a second chance. He grasped Blair’s hand in his, and together they dashed toward the exit the char-woman had indicated.

Once they were out of her courtroom, Pina Capobianco pushed her wheeled bucket further into the room.

“Nice boys,” she said, as she swished her broom around the judge’s bench. “Such nice boys.”

_The End_

 


End file.
